The Rogue 3: Without a Trace
by scribblemyname
Summary: Rogue loses her memories and becomes embroiled in a wager over Gambit's survival.
1. Le Diable Blanc

BECOMING ROGUE STORY ARC

STORY SUMMARY: Rogue and Logan have become a team as well as a family. He helps her to learn who she is after the Cure destroyed what little control she had. But when the people who once took away Logan's memories accidentally take away Rogue's and a mysterious Cajun Thief rescues her, she is caught up in a worldwide manhunt for Gambit while Logan desperately searches for her.

DISCLAIMERS: All characters and organizations (with the exception of small, mostly unnamed minor characters) throughout the series are the product of Marvel.

CANONICAL NOTES: This story arc follows X1, X2, and X3 as canon for characters and events. All else is pulled from comicverse and mixed heftily with my imagination. _Origins_ is ignored, except a few situations and characters twisted to my happy use.

LANGUAGE AND ACCENTS: Cajun French is courtesy of Heavenmetal (many thanks). French is courtesy of Disdainfully Arrogant and Marmottin (many thanks). I will not reproduce accents in this story arc. Imagine them in.

* * *

_**Without a Trace**_

**- 3 -**

**Story Summary:** Rogue loses her memories and becomes embroiled in a wager over Gambit's survival.

**Canonical Notes:** Set a few years following the events of X3.

**Author's Note:** I know I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter of _All's Fair_, but this story kept banging around in my brain until I gave up and started writing it. I'm ignoring the Wolverine movie and it's chronology (seeing as it's not out yet), because it only fits partway with what I'm wanting to do anyway. It's a little bit of a rougher ride. Hope you don't mind.

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter One: **_**Le Diable Blanc**_

_"The White Devil"_

- How did you do that? -  
_- _With style, petite. With style. _- _

_Jubilee and Gambit, X-Men TV Series, "Night of the Sentinels (Part 1)"_

* * *

Gambit made no attempt to brush the auburn hair back from his eyes. He was not wearing shades to cover them. He was a mutant. He was dangerous. _Le Diable Blanc_, the White Devil.

It's what she was paying him to be.

It was night. As one of the sentries, he patrolled the circle around the fire, checking everything before the two parties began negotiations. He nodded briefly at Quicksilver, his fellow in this.

A short, burly man passed him from the other side, making the same sort of rounds. The man looked like life had treated him harshly and he'd treated it only harsher back.

Gambit smiled an almost feral grin. He knew all about that.

Returning attention to his duties, he glanced briefly around at the wilderness hemming them in. It was mostly forest. The ground sloped downward on one side to meet a long plain. His own station was back up against a rock face rising from the earth. He joined his opposite from the other side there.

She was a belle femme. She stood on high alert, her face utterly unreadable. Her clothes were all the same midnight blue: a tank with wide straps, a pair of long pants, and combat boots. White hair framed her face but the long ponytail was brown. She turned intense emerald eyes on him.

He cocked his head and gave her a grin, but the femme seemed not to notice. Instead, her eyes drank him in slowly, hovering where his pant legs covered the tops of his boots, where the long sleeves met his black gloves, where his neck rose from his shirt, and finally, stopped at his devil eyes.

The whole time, she remained expressionless. Then she very deliberately turned toward the fire as both their parties stepped into view.

Gambit paid minimal attention to the conversation. His focus was on the surrounding area. While the forest provided privacy, it also provided ample opportunity for others to come upon them unawares. Quicksilver stood on alert on the other side. Between the two of them, they were responsible to detect any danger to their own side.

* * *

Rogue brushed back a strand of white, less careful now that she knew the sentry beside her was practically safe. He wore even more layers than she used to when a student at Xavier's. But his neck and face were bare. If necessary, she had access to what she needed.

He was a charmer, that one, still glancing over at her now and then. His red on black eyes glowed appreciatively when he did.

For the most part, Rogue ignored him, focusing on the negotiations instead. She had long since developed a canny ear for gleaning information about their employers and their employers' opposition since beginning her work with Logan three years prior. Her job was this. His was to alert her immediately if brute force was needed or if an outsider planned to attack.

Pleasantries had barely been exchanged when a prickly sensation crept up the back of her neck. The Logan in her stirred and she caught herself breathing deeper, trying to catch a scent. She heard something faintly. The tall man with devil eyes stiffened at her side.

Helicopter.

A deck of cards appeared in his hands, the silver-haired mutant by Logan disappeared in a blur, and Logan's claws came out.

Rogue got the leader of their side down without touching him while Logan moved out the others into the surrounding trees. The leader rolled after them to safety. Someone—someone fast—banked the fire and moved out the other side, each person vanishing in a blur. By the time the chopper came into view, almost everyone was gone.

She heard voices, men running through the trees toward them, guns and shouting. Another's memories were rising and taking over.

The helicopter.

Pink explosion lit up the incoming troops. More shouting. Bullets flying through the air. She was slammed with more than one but healed instantly. She ignored them and the men that were shooting. _His_ memories kept drawing her eyes to the helicopter.

A man suddenly slipped his side out of the open cockpit and raised a tranquilizer gun. He sighted down the length of it at the tall man with the red eyes, dancing through their ranks and flinging brightly lit playing cards into powerful explosions.

Something almost physical hit her and she screamed.

An onslaught of memory in less than a second. Silver Fox. Claws and death. Forgetting all that had gone before. The smell of that chemical, the sight of that gun. _They took everything away_.

Rogue pulled up a strength she'd never known she had and flung one man into the face of the flying dart. She hit another in the neck, took him down. Shoved two more out of her way. She caught the surprise in the crimson eyes as she grabbed his neck with her hand and he slumped and fell as she absorbed him.

Power coursed through her. She let him go and tried to contain the building energy within her. She had to let go, let it out, free all the energy in these molecules around her.

She palmed his deck with one hand and reached out with the other. The chopper began to glow. Brighter. Brighter. The whole deck glowed in her other hand and she flung it in the faces of their enemies, even as something sharp and heavy pierced her arm. Pink cards flew by in a snowstorm.

Everything exploded.

* * *

He woke lightheaded and tried to sit up. The femme had fallen on him. He caught her in his arms and managed to rise.

"Merde_."_

The wilderness had become a wasteland. The mangled remains of a chopper had crashed to the ground with pieces of it scattered throughout the clearing and beyond. Bodies were strewn all around.

Dawn was approaching.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms. She had covered him with her body, he remembered vaguely. She'd tried to protect him.

Gambit would have left her behind.

Remy LeBeau carried her safely away.

* * *

Nightmares wrestled with her in this strange place.

_Metal tearing through her flesh. Her family going up in flames. A wedding dress stained with blood._

She twisted and moaned.

_So hot. Fire everywhere. Blood. So much blood._

A soft voice tried to reach her. She struggled toward the sound. A feeling, like a hand on her stomach.

"Softly, chère," murmured the smooth voice. "Softly."

The dreams subsided and with them, so did she, falling back into the darkness, a single playing card tumbling ahead of her in the pink light.

* * *

Storm's greatest regret from her first year as headmistress was the loss of Logan and Rogue. The first, she had expected: there was nothing to hold him. But Rogue had just taken the Cure and seemed so happy with Bobby. It had shocked everyone when a month later she stormed out of Bobby's room in heated anger, slammed everything personal into a black duffel, and rode away on the back of Logan's bike.

He called often. She never did.

So Storm was initially pleased when Logan's permanent cell showed up on her caller ID.

"Logan, it's good to hear from you," she said with a smile.

He grunted. "Can't say the same. Rogue's missing."

"What?" She sat down. "What do you mean?"

"Running a job. Things got nasty. She missed the rendezvous."

Storm could hear him blowing out a smoke.

"I went back," he continued. "The place is a waste. She wasn't there and I haven't found out who the others were to check with them yet."

"Do you have any leads?" Storm asked, grasping for something, anything. "Was there any _clue_ where she might have gone?"

Logan sighed. "Not a trace."

* * *

Remy found the puncture wound shortly after settling her down. He traced over it with his gloved fingers, wondering what _exactly_ had poked her. He traced over it again. Probably a needle.

_That_ was disturbing.

The femme stirred then, moaning and twisting in his sheets. He flattened his hand against her stomach.

"Easy, petite. You're all right."

She cried out.

He pressed a little harder and reached out with his empathy, trying to calm the dreams (or drug-induced hallucinations).

"Softly, chère. Softly."

She seemed to settle down, drifting deeper into slumber.

Remy frowned in worry. She'd clearly been shot with something. The odds were good it was something bad. He reached for the phone.

* * *

It had been two days and the femme still had not awakened. She would surface sometimes and he could get her to drink something, but then she'd be gone again, lost in nightmares and dreams.

His contact came and went with enough samples to determine what had struck her.

Remy continued to sleep on the couch and care for the femme in his bed.

She was beautiful, that one. Her hair was long and silky with a chestnut hue. The pure white framed her face becomingly. He would sometimes slide it through the fingers of his gloves and wonder where it came from. It didn't have the look of dye.

He only ignored her shape by keeping it covered. When she kicked off the sheets, he dutifully put them back on, tucking her in to make it harder for her to do it again.

He watched her. He pulled up a chair beside the bed to help him do it.

By the end of the third day, he'd read every book and magazine he had in the apartment. And he was worried. No word had come from his employer for the last job. No questions about what had gone down. No calls for another meeting. The woman that had hired him had vanished.

Without a trace.

The femme stirred. He grabbed a cup of water and almost had it to her mouth when her eyelids opened to reveal those perfect sparkling green orbs he'd noticed the first time he saw her.

She scrambled up onto one arm, looking a little dazed.

He set the cup down slowly. "It's all right, chère." He wondered to himself when he had started calling her an endearment. "You're all right," he said soothingly.

Her gaze fastened on him. A flicker of recognition passed through it. "What's your name?" she asked softly.

Mississippi. He blinked. A southern girl.

"Remy LeBeau." Then he cursed himself. Handing out his entire given name to a stranger he _knew_ worked as a mercenary.

"Oh." She turned away.

He frowned. "Perhaps, some wat—"

"I don't remember _my_ name."

That shut him up. The femme turned toward him again, a slightly perplexed look on her face.

Remy sat back slowly. Considered. "Do you remember _anything_?"

"My f—" She stopped, cocked her head. "A man."

Friend? Father? What had she been going to say? Remy sighed and returned to the water.

"Water, chère. Then food."

She stared at him solemnly as he held out the cup.

"We'll find him," he said reassuringly when she made no move to take it.

Hesitantly she reached out and accepted the cup. Then tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear, she looked up with a soft, vulnerable smile. "Promise?"

He swallowed. And what good was the promise of a thief? He'd promised Bella. He'd promised Etienne. He'd _stopped_ promising himself.

Remy caught her chin in his hand, stared deeply into those sparkling, intense green eyes, and breathed in her scent mixed with his own from the shirt and the sheets.

"I promise."

* * *

Logan hadn't caught her scent. He'd searched the rubble and the bodies and come away empty-handed. The chopper had been destroyed beyond recognition, and he'd found no identifying markers on it or the men.

He'd since tracked own the silver-haired sentry, to no avail. "Quicksilver" knew nothing. His employer, a woman with no name and a hefty bank account, had vanished. Not that the speedster cared. He'd been paid upfront.

Logan's search had even unearthed the team his had been negotiating with. None of them knew where she was. The only one he hadn't found was called Gambit.

He was a Cajun, they said. _Le Diable Blanc_. That's all they knew.

With a growl, Logan returned to his bike and the open road.

A white devil and his own Rogue had vanished, along with Gambit and Quicksilver's mysterious employer.

It wasn't much, but it was all he had.


	2. Une Belle Femme Dangeureuse

I don't own the characters or universe or anything else that is the product of Marvel.

I used an internet translator to get the French title. If it's wrong, please tell me and I'll fix it. [Thanks for the fix, **Ambaron** **Luxuria**!]

Took this one a little slower. Sorry it took a little longer, but between getting blood poisoning and trying to flesh this out properly, a fast update had to be sacrificed. Hope you like it.

So I typo'd the fixed title. It's fixed. (got more gripes...:grumbles beneath breath:)

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Two: **_**Une Belle Femme Dangeureuse**_

"A Beautiful, Dangerous Woman"

- Feel better, p'tite? -  
_- _Not while you're still alive. _-  
- _Good news den 'cause it don't look like I'm going to be dat way for much longer. _-_

_Gambit and Blink, Astonishing X-Men, "Age of Apocalypse"_

* * *

She slipped gingerly into the shower and flinched as the hot water hit her cuts and bruises. Whatever she'd been doing to wind up in Remy's bed had been rough on her body. She leaned back her head against the shower wall, closed her eyes, and let the steam pour through her.

"Remember, fille," she whispered to herself, half in French. "Remember."

Her world focused inward, telescoping through all the pieces flitting through her mind.

_Nightscapes of New Orleans, fighting and thieving, a wedding dress stained with blood. Claws and metal piercing her flesh, wars and dog tags, an animal of a man that should've died when she killed him. Loving parents, eyes turned to hatred and fear, ice reaching out to destroy her closest friend. _

More glimpses of memory flashed by.

_Flames consuming her mother and father, unable to stop the flames, unable to want to. The concentration camps, a numbered arm, leaving her closest friend to his impossible dreams. High school football in Mississippi, a girlfriend with long brown hair and a talent for piano, talk of Alaska..._

She frowned, reaching past the nightmares and memories. None of them were her. No, her only memories in her own skin were of Remy with his bright, beautiful eyes trying to help her, trying to reach her through the nightmares. Somewhere, beneath all of this, _she_ was hidden.

Suddenly, she pulled back frightened. She was not alone in here. Faces, feelings, personalities pushed at her.

_We're trapped in here. Don't you remember us?_

Some of them were out where she could see them.

The man, her father perhaps, wearing his dog tags. "I'll take care of you, kid. Hang in there."

A blonde, young man with lost and angry eyes. "How can you just trust this guy? You don't even know him."

_I don't even know you,_ she returned softly, uncertain as yet of how to proceed.

"You will survive, my girl," said the silver-haired man with grave dignity. "You always have."

A teenage southern boy drawled, "Just don't ask me to get you out of this. You always wanted adventure."

Other personalities waited. She could feel them lurking in the shadows. She reached for them, but they moved and danced away.

_You trapped us. Why should we help you?_

They were silenced abruptly by another shadow. A _stronger_ shadow.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

It moved like liquid, always just beyond her reach. She reached harder and saw New Orleans again, then felt her fingers start to tingle with restlessness, and alertness flooded her, revealing more clearly the shadows in the darkness.

A Cajun voice, smooth as honey, feeling like her own thoughts, washed through. "Let me be, chère. I'll steal your name back. Ain't a code that I can't crack."

"So modest too," she replied calmly.

A sullen silence and then he let her see his glowing red on black eyes, let her feel his energy beneath her skin, and let her know him for a moment.

"Remy," she breathed. What was he to her? Friend? Boyfriend? Lover?

The personality slipped beyond her grasp to become a shadow again. She opened her eyes to the shower, the steam, and Remy's real, physical apartment bathroom. The internal landscape faded away.

He'd promised.

She finished washing and turned off the water. His towels smelled like him, like cinnamon and cigarettes and bourbon and his own scent. A nice scent.

He had brought her some clothes and left them in the linen closet. She giggled on inspection. Clearly, he liked her in lace underwear. The pair of jeans fit snugly over her hips and she flipped through the shirts slowly. Her eyes continued upward to the shelf above.

* * *

"Dieu, chère!"

Remy nearly dropped her plate of food when he glanced over and saw the femme coming out of his bedroom. She'd startled him with her silence. Not even a whisper of energy hinted to him that she was coming. He looked at her and nearly dropped the plate again.

She was wearing his shirt.

She had showered and her long chestnut hair fell in soft, damp ripples with the white curling around her cheeks. His green dress shirt clung to her as if she hadn't dried off all the way and showed off her curves. It wasn't helped any by the snug jeans he'd got her.

Remy forced himself to be casual and put her plate on the table. Something in him was inordinately pleased that she had chosen his shirt over the others, but the rest of him was aghast that he could even feel that way.

"The shirts not fit?" he asked _very_ casually.

"They're nice," she replied and settled into her seat. A slight grimace curled her lips, but she hid it fairly well. She eyed her plate appreciatively. "So where do you sleep?"

He blinked in surprise but sat down across from her. "Couch, for now."

The femme looked up from the food. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's nothing, chère." He brushed it off. "Didn't want to frighten you."

She stiffened a little more and he cursed himself. He kept forgetting she had no memories, and that kind of statement could be construed a lot of ways.

She sat one elbow on the table and leaned into her hand, studying him intently. Her gaze ran over his face, his arms and hands, his posture. Remy had never minded being on display, but this seemed to be something else and was uncomfortably reminiscent of the first time he saw her.

He had to break the tension.

"Looking like you want something, chère. You're welcome to whatever you see."

A sudden blush bloomed across her face and she pulled back a little.

Remy felt a tad guilty for hitting on a vulnerable _femme_, but forced himself to smile and act normal anyway. He began to eat, heartily and with great interest.

She took a deep breath. "Are we…Were we…" She couldn't get any more out.

"Chère_._" He reached out and caught her by the wrist.

She looked at him, halting the words on his tongue with the look in her eyes. It was uncertain but there. She looked at him like someone she could trust and maybe even love. It rattled him a little, but he could not pull away.

Tentatively, she reached out with her free hand and brushed his hair back from his eyes. Her fingers grazed his face for the briefest of seconds, then she set her hand back on the table.

"What?" she asked.

He shook himself out of it and released her wrist. This time, he continued eating while talking to her.

"We ran into some trouble, and you saved me," he said. "You were hurt and I brought you here."

She cautiously bit into her own food. She seemed to be pondering his words. "This is very good."

"Merci_._"

Her eyes drifted back toward his. "Do you know where _he_ is?"

"Non_._" He shook his head. "But I'll find out, chère. Promised."

Tension successfully broken. He felt slightly pleased and somewhat disappointed. The sooner he got her safely to her family, the better. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to just create a life for her—as his. But he decided against it for many reasons, including that shy vulnerable look she gave him despite her strength and confidence. She _trusted_ him.

"What shall we call you?" Remy asked, moving on to the practical.

Her eyes blanked out, then turned thoughtful and fastened on him. She lifted a shoulder with practiced indifference and smiled faintly. "How about Chere?"

He stared at her, stunned for some reason, not certain why that made him uncomfortable. But he forced a smile for her sake. "Sounds bon."

"Chere" gave him a brilliant smile back and continued to eat her food slowly. He hadn't served her a lot, not wanting to harm her stomach so soon after fasting, but she seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly.

"I feel like I haven't eaten this good in ages." Her southern accent seemed to thicken with her excitement.

"I'm glad you like it—" He bit off the endearment. It came so naturally with her, but it was her _name_ now.

She glanced at him oddly.

He smiled. "You go back to bed. I'll clean the dishes."

* * *

"I placed him directly in your line of fire. It's not my fault your men are incompetent!" The woman was stunning and hardened. She tapped perfectly manicured nails impatiently on the glossy walnut finish of her dining room table while absently taking in the view from her Manhattan penthouse suite.

"At no charge?" she laughed wickedly at the person on the phone. "Call me with a real offer."

Her nails stilled. Her mouth straightened into a line.

"Double it and we'll deal."

* * *

Chere was resting and Remy was washing dishes, trying to figure out what to do about her. He knew from his own experience that she wasn't someone to be played with. The femme could and did fight and handle herself effectively. But she couldn't remember anything, except a _him_.

He groaned with frustration, then absently uncharged the sponge.

He needed to distance himself and gain some perspective. She was approximately twenty-four, he decided. Give or take a year. Her upbringing had been in Mississippi, but judging from the way she ate and her pseudo-memory, she hadn't been there in a while and missed real southern food. There was a man who would probably be looking for her when he discovered she was missing. She had nearly constant nightmares.

Remy groaned again. This was hardly enough information to go on.

The one who could give him what he needed was his former employer, but of course, _she_ was nowhere to be found.

It always unnerved him when an employer vanished after a job gone bad, not that she'd left him hanging. He'd been paid upfront. But _why_ would she disappear after a botched job? Shouldn't she be demanding that they reassemble, negotiate again?

It had been diamonds. The woman had enough of them from the wrong African countries and the other side had been buying. But he couldn't track down the other side without her help.

A man.

It could be anyone. Anyone at all.

He considered calling his family but dismissed the thought immediately. Nothing _there_ had changed.

"Remy!"

He froze. Then pulling himself together, he hurried into the bedroom and found Chere twisting in his sheets, calling out his name.

He didn't stop to think, just gathered her to him and shushed her. She buried her face into his shoulder and her nails into his arm, whispered his name one last time contentedly, and settled into a calm slumber.

He didn't know what to think.

An angel in his arms had _called for him. _No one ever called for him and reached for him in perfect trust.

He held her to him and continued to whisper endearments in French in her ears.

She'd called for him.

He was lost.

* * *

Henri LeBeau swore loudly when he slammed down the phone. "Mercy!"

"What has gotten into you, mon amour?" his wife Mercy asked as she came in the bedroom.

"Remy's number. It doesn't work."

She frowned. "That phone drowned, remember? I'll get you the new one."

Henri followed her as she went into the kitchen and rummaged around in a drawer muttering things about impatient husbands.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, still rummaging.

"Just find the number!"

* * *

Remy shook her gently awake in the afternoon. "Time to get up, Chere."

She sat up sleepily and rubbed her eyes. She heard him chuckle low in his throat with a smooth, rich sound and figured she could listen to him for hours.

"What time is it?"

"Two o'clock."

His hand touched her face. She looked at him. He always wore gloves, and she wondered vaguely if it was for his sake or hers.

"Remember anything?" he asked softly.

Chere sat up in bed and studied him. His eyes seemed to glow and she leaned closer to see.

"Your eyes don't stay the same," she said. "They change."

"Really?" He looked slightly amused by her observation.

She frowned. "I told you what I remember."

He sighed and rubbed his hands together. "We need a little more to work with, so let's start by asking questions, d'accord?"

"Okay," she said uncertainly.

"Do you know who he is?" He flexed his fingers when he asked.

She thought and felt and couldn't put her finger on it. "He's like my father," she said finally. "And my friend. But he's not my father." She frowned and grappled with the problem of it, but Remy cut her off.

"Do you remember his name?"

_His_ name. She closed her eyes, reached for cigar smoke and metal, felt the dog tags. Suddenly, she gasped and opened her eyes. "My clothes! What'd you do with them?"

Remy seemed taken aback, but he stood and went over to the armoire. He pulled a stack of clothes out of the middle drawer. "They're a little beat up, Chere."

That was an understatement. She quickly unfolded and shook out each item, finding them torn with bullets and something else. They were dirty and barely held into their own proper shapes. A bit of metal fell out. She clutched at it, spread it out in her fingers, and laughed.

"Wolverine," she said. "That's his name."

"Merde_._"

She was surprised to hear him cuss and turned her attention to Remy's face. His eyes seemed darker with a rich brilliance on the iris that _felt_ dangerous. They were fixed on the dog tags in her hand. He seemed to be remembering something.

"Remy?"

"I forgot," he said simply. Then he looked at her and smiled, melting away her worry into something different and more restless. "If he's like a father to you, then you_, _ma chère, are a beautiful"—she blushed at that—"dangerous woman."


	3. Les Règles du Jeu

I don't own the characters or universe or anything else that is the product of Marvel.

If the chapter went too fast, just let me know. This one takes a lot out of me to write, even if I love it to death!

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Three: **_**Les Règles du Jeu**_

_"The Rules of the Game"_

- Ya know even the slightest physical contacts means Ah'd absorb ya mind and powers! -  
_- _Worse fates spring t'mind, chère. _- _

_Rogue and Gambit, X-Men #8_

* * *

Chere stared up at Remy. She didn't feel like anyone had ever called her dangerous or beautiful like that, like it was some sort of irresistible combination. She didn't think anyone had ever looked at her like that either, like they were literally drinking her in.

She hesitated, then asked, "You know him?"

Remy shook his head. Several strands of hair fell across his eyes and she wanted to reach out again and brush them away, but instead she waited for his explanation. It didn't come. Remy turned away, looking troubled, and folded her ruined clothes one by one, returning them to the drawer.

"Remy?" Chere scrambled off the bed and went to him.

He stiffened when she touched his shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked, keeping the panic from her voice.

Her only ally right now had retreated into himself. She was fairly certain by now that she hadn't known him for a long time before her memory loss, but he was all she had now and whatever their relationship was, it was close.

Remy's dark red eyes met hers. He was still thinking, she could tell.

"I met him once. Fought him," he finally said. "But that was a long time ago, Chere. I was still a pup."

She shrugged one shoulder. "You've been working that long."

His eyes blazed abruptly, then dimmed. "How do you know that?"

Chere froze and frowned. How _did_ she know that? She worked it over in her head and could only guess it came from the dreams and that liquid shadow in her mind that hid behind the other personalities. "You're in my head somehow."

He studied her but didn't seem angry or even surprised.

She glanced at the dog tags in her hand. "Will this help you find him?"

Remy pulled away from her and shrugged. "Anything helps, Chere. I don't have much in the way of leads unless you give them to me." He suddenly looked tired in her eyes. "I never found him under that name before, so the odds aren't that good I will this time."

"Oh." It was so hard to just _not know_. But Remy was right. Her lack of memory wasn't helping him in his search.

His hand drew her chin back up. "Unless he's looking for you."

She caught her breath. "Do you think he is?"

"If he isn't, he's a fool." The words were harsh and flat.

The effect wasn't.

The effect was a warm feeling filling her entire body that Remy would feel that way. She wondered again how they had met before this and not managed to exchange names—and what exactly their relationship was.

Remy covered her hand with his, the dog tags jangling a little with the motion. "I told you I'd find him. I _will_."

At that moment, the phone rang, seeming overly loud to Chere who had only heard Remy's quiet voice and steps since waking.

Remy released his grip and marched to the nightstand to pick up.

"Gambit," he answered, his voice coolly professional. Then he frowned. "Henri. Slow down."

* * *

"You've got to get out of there, Remy," Henri said into the phone.

Mercy stood behind him, furrowing her brows in deep concern.

His little brother sounded impatient and confused. "Get out of where?"

"Where? There. Wherever you are." Henri ran a hand through his hair. "Bella Donna called. Said someone pulled a contract on you. That someone who knew where you were had sold you out."

A hiss of air sounded on the other end. "Bella?"

"Look, frere, for all the bad blood between you two"—he heard Remy swear at his choice of words—"she doesn't want to see you dead. This is serious, Remy. We're talking a three million dollar contract on your head!"

Dead silence greeted that.

Mercy stared at Henri in shock and sat down hard on their bed.

Finally, Remy responded in a very quiet voice. "Did she say who sold?"

"Your last employer."

This time, there was no silence. Only a cold, methodical blue streak in three different languages, never repeating a word once.

"Remy."

Remy sighed and quit swearing. "Don't call. I'll take care of this and let you know when we're clear."

"Don't _die_." Henri couldn't care less about calling.

"Don't worry, frere. I haven't yet." The line went dead with a decisive click and Remy was gone.

* * *

Remy turned to face Chere. Her eyes flickered with barely concealed concern, but her face was nearly unreadable.

He considered. She was vulnerable from her amnesia and had complete trust that he would take care of her. While her body still bore bruises, she was healing remarkably quickly. Despite the bullet holes in her shirt, she herself had none, a puzzle he had formerly shelved for more pressing matters. Looking at her now, she _might_ be ready to take on another challenge like the one that had landed them in this room.

He'd promised.

"Bit of a problem, Chere." He kept his tone even.

"What?" She matched him, only conveying a whiff of curiosity.

He hated doing this, but he decided to throw the decision on her and see where everything fell down. So he pulled out the chair and sat. She came forward warily as if he might be laying a trap.

"I just got word that we need to relocate, so that leaves us a couple of options."

She nodded, still following.

He ticked off a finger. "One: I can leave you with some friends and all the stuff we got so far, and they find your Wolverine."

Before he finished, she was already shaking her head, her green eyes wide with a nameless fear.

"Or two..."

She stilled.

"You come with me."

"I'll come," she answered. Too quickly.

"Non." He leaned forward, certain the energy he felt flaring within made itself shown on his face. "Listen first, Chere. Decisions after."

She lifted her chin. "I'm listening."

"Someone's put a _contract_ on me." He said it firmly, willing her to understand what he was really asking. "Where I'm going, someone's going to try to track me down, probably kill me. You come along, you'll be in for trouble."

"You want me out of your way," she said flatly.

"_Non_. I want you _alive_." He sighed, leaning back again. "But I don't think it matters either way, as long as you're amenable."

She lifted an eyebrow.

He studied her and then let out a disgusted sigh. She had no idea how strong she _was_. "Chere."

"What?" she snapped, green eyes coming alive.

"Do you even know what you _do_?"

That shook her a little and she stepped back. "You mean for a living?"

"Oui_._" He smiled just a little, not his nicest smile. "For a _living_." He'd slipped into his Gambit persona, trying to push her a little in the right direction.

Chere measured him, then closed her eyes halfway and breathed in a long, long breath like she always did before trying very hard to remember. Her gaze into nothingness sharpened, then slackened. Her body stiffened slightly, she sniffed sharply, and her jaw tightened.

"I worked with _him,_" she said flatly.

Then suddenly, she shook herself and her eyes seemed to grow greener and her expression changed. She was breathing inward again and her eyes widened and brightened. Slowly, the iris began to turn brown.

Remy sat straight up and watched in growing horror as the color moved from hazel to brown to amber to crimson. At the same time, the whites slowly dimmed and turned black. _His_ eyes stared back at him. He could feel her energy signature humming with _his_ restlessness.

She stared off out the closed window. "Sentry," she said flatly again. This time, her accent was tinged with Cajun. That's when he realized her first statement wasn't in her own southern voice.

Then slowly, the black began to lighten. The red turned to amber, then brown, then hazel, then slowly swirled back into green. She shook herself like she had before, and her unfocused eyes landed on him.

He was still staring in shock.

Chere's breath caught sharply. Recognition flashed across her face and she came toward him quickly, shaking her head, and saying, "Please, please don't be afraid of me, Remy. Please don't be afraid."

He could hear the fear in her voice, the uncertainty, and see the panic in her beautiful eyes. As soon as she was close enough, he snagged her by the wrist and pulled her into his lap.

She stopped breathing.

He ran a gloved finger down her arm, still studying her and trying to absorb what he had seen.

She caught her breath in a gasp and buried her face in his shoulder. "I don't want you to be afraid of me," she whispered.

He didn't allow himself a response. She was a woman to be afraid of. He wasn't afraid only because he did not allow himself fear. But a sharp need for understanding hovered just beneath his skin. He continued to trace her arm with his hand. He needed to think.

She had his eyes. She had nightmares. Constant nightmares. She knew how long he'd been working. She had no bullet wounds.

He frowned. Wolverine healed, he remembered dimly. Snapshots and pieces almost starting to fit together.

She had studied his _clothes_.

Suddenly, he gripped her hard and pulled her chin up to look at her.

She wasn't afraid either. Just hopeful, maybe desperate. Somehow that look told him just how often she'd been rejected, whether she remembered it or not.

"Remy, I—"

He cut her off with a kiss.

* * *

He tasted like spices and cigarettes and something indefinable but utterly Remy. He was also flooding inside her. She pulled away from him with a gasp, reeling with his memories, sensations, and more. She dug her nails into his shoulders. It was too much to take in.

Her world exploded with new knowledge. She could feel the molecules around her, humming statically, their energy begging to be released. Remy's heartbeat felt so close. Every tiny shift he made registered in this new strange sense of energy. She could feel the intensity of his interest. His emotions felt...shielded, but she could feel them.

She was restless and warm and the energy was rising up in her. The urge to charge something was incredible. Her mind suddenly filled with details as to exactly what that meant.

His personality inside her head got stronger and more real. She was feeling his feelings, thinking his thoughts. He wanted, _needed_, to know what made her who she was. What happened when people touched her skin.

And he'd wanted that kiss.

Abruptly, the information began to ebb and ease into her. She could see some portion of herself she no longer had access to shift out of the shadows at the corners of her mind and methodically, almost brutally, categorize the flood and move each part into specific areas of her psyche.

The whole thing was over in seconds. Three, her internal housekeeper provided then vanished.

Chere stared into Remy's red eyes, now almost hectically brilliant as they focused entirely on her.

Remy swirled easily through her consciousness, no longer so overwhelming. She wanted another kiss badly.

"Remy," she breathed. Their closeness rendered anything louder excessive.

He ran a hand through her hair, tangling it around his fingers.

"Kiss me again."

His eyes dimmed and he shifted beneath her. She felt the movement inside her as well as out.

"I'm not a gentleman, Chere." He seemed uncomfortable. Sorrow lurked at the corners of his eyes.

Chere smiled. "I never wanted a gentleman."

Surprise flared but he leaned in closer. "Brief," he whispered.

"Mmm."

He kissed her again.


	4. Les Terrains de Chasse

I don't own the characters or universe or anything else that is the product of Marvel.

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Four: **_**Les Terrains de Chasse**_

_"The Hunting Grounds"_

- Any one of us would have laid down our hides for you. 'Cause then, you was at least a bum with honor. -  
_- _Yeah, well—dat was just a rumor I started. _- _

_Grovel and Gambit, Uncanny X-Men #347_

* * *

Logan kept his jacket close about him as he ducked into a seedy looking bar on the edge of town. He kept his eyes open and ignored the men that shuffled further away from him in their seats. There was enough smoke in the place to shelter almost anyone in anonymity.

He shouldered his way to the back of the bar and dropped into a seat in front of his contact. "Hudson."

"Logan." The man raised his shot glass and downed it in a gulp. "You said it was urgent."

Logan took a moment to order a beer, then settled in. "Yeah. My girl got picked up in some sort of ops. Vanished."

Hudson narrowed his eyes. "You sure about that? Can't always help in ops."

"It's my girl," Logan growled and watched the other man wince. He knew how Wolverine felt about Rogue. "She and another guy. Ever heard of _Le Diable Blanc_?"

Hudson dropped an expletive. "Logan, you sure pick the worst kind of trouble. You absolutely _positive_ she didn't just skip out on you somewhere?"

"Running a job south of the pike and got a chopper and ground troops coming at us." Logan took another swig of his beer. "They weren't after the diamonds."

"South, you say?"

"South."

James Hudson stared down at his empty glass and narrowed his eyes in thought. "Most of what I know about _Le Diable Blanc _is classified if you get my drift. He runs high-end jobs, secret strings and never fails. I've only worked with him once and never saw him."

Logan grunted.

"If they're calling him in now, it could be anything." He paused and met Logan's eyes. "But whatever it is, it won't be pretty."

"Just tell me who's running a chopper out past the pike."

Hudson shrugged. "I've got ten guesses. Let me drop some feelers. I've been hearing a lot of undercurrents going on. Trouble of some sort or other with mutants."

"And he is one?"

A brief nod confirmed it. "And a dangerous one. That isn't a _friendly_ nickname. Sure, he wisecracks through eighty percent of the nastiest jobs, but he's done worse jobs than you."

Logan nodded and put enough money on the table to cover the bill. "See you Monday."

"Just be careful, Logan. They'd jump at a chance to get their hands on you."

Logan paused. "And you wouldn't know anything about that?"

Hudson held up his hands as if to show his innocence. "I picked you up, cleaned you up. I still don't know where you came from."

"Fine, then. Happy hunting."

* * *

Kissing Chere was like pulling off a heist from a top-security military building after forty-eight hours of no sleep: exhausting, exhilarating, and dangerously addictive. Remy had to get away quickly in order to focus on the work at hand. He told her what to take and left her to pack.

Just stop thinking about it, he told himself. He booted his laptop and went to work erasing himself from existence.

He took a small percentage of his funds from multiple accounts and transferred them to "Emily Lapeer." His cousin Emil couldn't provide money for him, but he let him keep a small slush fund for emergencies in a name no one would trace. This was definitely an emergency.

He'd seen hits before, even taken them. Three million dollars meant either an auction or deep, deep pockets (usually government). It wasn't often that people took bids for the right to kill someone, which meant worse could be on the menu. He didn't want to tell Chere that worse had been on the menu the last time he saw her "friend."

Remy was brutally efficient in removing his tracks, freezing his accounts, clearing all records of himself. He'd hacked and stolen and researched enough to know what was necessary. He cleaned off everything possible, then shut down and set the laptop on the desk in the front room. He carefully reworked the wiring and strung out more wires, creating the necessary connections.

He felt the whisper of movement that denoted Chere's entrance. He tossed her a black bag.

"Help me string 'em."

She didn't argue, just set down the duffel bags and went to work. He figured she'd pull his memories for what she was doing and wasn't surprised when she turned out to be an expert at placing and setting the charges around the apartment. She only hesitated for a moment before latching the one over the door.

"Will anyone get hurt?" she asked without a trace of emotion in her voice.

Remy shrugged. "None of our business, Chere. They're here to get us."

She glanced at him and shook her head. "I meant the neighbors."

"_Non_. I've done this before."

She merely nodded, not asking.

They laid their lethal web. He fiddled with the computer another moment, then snapped it shut.

"Get everything?"

"Yes." She was as coldly professional as he. It scared him but he had no time to be afraid.

He grabbed one of the duffels, slipped on his sunglasses, and pulled her towards the door. "Let's go."

* * *

Remy seemed to have no qualms about maneuvering Chere where he wanted her, and she found herself nestled between him and the wall outside his apartment as he locked the door and set the final triggers. His personality had kept her frighteningly well-informed during their work as to what exactly she was helping him do. Chere wished she could say she'd never done something so cold-blooded before, but she really didn't know. Something in her found it easy. Too easy.

He tucked a hand in the crook of her elbow and led her down breezeway to the stairs.

"We'll take the bike," he said and glanced back at her.

She didn't like the shades.

"But nothing else, d'accord?"

Chere raised her eyebrows. "What else do you think I'm going to grab?"

Remy shrugged and stopped at what had to be a custom rig. She could identify parts, but not the make or model of the motorcycle. He took the bags and put them in the helmet compartment, then handed her a helmet.

She furrowed her brows. "Harley?"

"Non. Too noisy." He clucked distastefully. "Little of this. Little of that. Made her myself." He settled onto the seat and indicated she was to join him.

A bolt of recognition flashed through her as she leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I've ridden one before," she said softly.

"Bien." He slapped his helmet shut and started the engine.

She laughed in the wind blowing against them as they rode, not loudly, but enough to feel her enjoyment. Somehow, this felt right. It felt like home.

* * *

Emma Frost stood on the balcony of the fine restaurant where Heather Hudson had taken her. She sipped slowly on the last of her champagne.

"Why should I help you?" the telepath asked softly.

Emma's blonde hair was done up elegantly and her white dress left little to the imagination. But nobody dared criticize the powerful socialite, especially the only one to successfully defeat Mastermind and earn her own freedom. He'd made a habit of picking up telepaths and empaths and making them his favorite pets. And tools.

Heather knew a great deal about tools and was in the business of getting others less powerful than Emma out of the clutches of those who would use them. She had met Emma through mutual interest in a young mutant named Kitty Pryde and a fragile friendship had developed between the two.

"I've told you about Logan?" Heather leaned on the railing to better enjoy the breeze.

Emma ignored the view of Manhattan's skyline. "You have."

"He has a friend. Young. Female." Heather shuddered. "We have reason to believe that she might have gotten caught in all of this."

Emma's blue eyes focused like lasers. "But why should I help _you_?"

Heather glanced back sharply. "You've already been bought?"

"I keep client confidentiality, Heather." Emma shrugged her exposed shoulders above the simple white dress. "But I will tell you this, _as a friend_. All I ever sold was information and opportunity. I certainly could provide...other...services."

The words hung in the evening air.

Heather sipped on her champagne. "Such as certain search capabilities?"

"I don't have a Cerebro."

"My husband works for Department H," Heather reminded her. "As do I. I don't think it'll be a problem."

* * *

Bella Donna Boudreaux was an Assassin, not a romantic, not a thief, and certainly not an obsessed stalker! She banged her fist in frustration on the heavy oaken table that had survived centuries of Assassins' tempers.

Marius looked up from his casual breakfast. Hers was untouched, but a slew of papers and an open laptop decorated the table in front of her.

"No change?" he asked, an amused taint to his tone.

She glared at her pere. Then she shifted her attention back to the data in front of her. "I've even offered to take the contract, Pere, but I still can't find out who's paying."

"Please, Bella!" her Tante Claudette began. "Don't whine!"

Tante Claudette though had nothing on her former lover's Tante Mattie and Bella Donna was thoroughly unmoved.

"Remy is still my _betrothed_, until such time as the treaty is nullified or modified," she said icily. "I have every reason to want to know who wants his head!"

Marius sighed and shoved back his plate. "What is troubling you?"

"The contract calls for his delivery alive. They don't want an assassination."

He frowned deeply and she wondered if perhaps he was finally taking her seriously. "Essex?"

Bella Donna frowned in response. Remy hadn't told her much about the doctor, except that he'd wanted to know a lot more about Remy than he'd been willing to allow.

"Perhaps." She drummed her nails on the tabletop, then slammed her fist again. It had survived a couple centuries already and she wasn't inclined to spare it any when it was likely to survive a few more. Bella Donna sighed and went back to work.

Maybe she would take the contract, if only to find out more about the hunt.

* * *

Logan never stopped with a single lead. French was French. He called up one of the men he had met during these last three years with Rogue, away from Xavier's Institute.

"Yeah, it's me." He leaned into the side of a building and listened carefully to the man on his cell phone. "French name. Code or something. _Diable Blanc_. Freelances for Canada."

He blew out steam in the cold. "Yeah. It's important."

A long moment passed. Logan grabbed a pen from his pocket and wrote a number on his hand. "You got it. I owe you."

He'd pay up too. But anything was worth it for Rogue.

* * *

A/N: To all of you who are about to flip out on Bella Donna, let's start with I'm not going to make her sappy, particularly nice, or particularly melodramatic. As she hasn't appeared in the movieverse I have a little leeway. But in the comicverse, these facts appealed to me. At one time, she was loveable or Remy wouldn't have been buds with her. They were just too young. She also wasn't too sure if she still loved him after a while. She's a phenomenal assassin. Ladies and gentleman, I needed a phenomenal assassin. She's in the story. But bear with me.


	5. Une Cible Facile

I don't own the characters or universe or anything else that is the product of Marvel.

Ugh! If this one doesn't work quite right, PLEASE let me know right away. I've never read the comics, and I had to cull for characters and information. Please let me know if this chapter works! :begging on my knees: I love this fic, but execution is a real concern.

* * *

French Translation(s):

Les dames en premier, mademoiselle. - Ladies first, miss.

Ouais, je sais. - Yeah, I know.

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Five: **_**Une Cible Facile**_

_"An Easy Target"_

- I mean, if de entire world didn't fear and hate us and want all mutants dead—we'd be having the time of our lives. -  
- But they do. And we aren't. -  
- Details. -

_Gambit and Bishop, Uncanny X-Men #334_

* * *

Remy gave Chere an impossibly mischievous grin and she thought he looked like a playful teenager as he skipped up the last flight of stairs to a dingy apartment door.

"What are you up to, Remy?" She stuck one hand on her hip.

He shrugged and fell straight as a board against the doorbell. He didn't seem to have any intention of letting up, instead adjusting his shades slightly.

Chere laughed at him. "You're impossible."

"If I was impossible, I wouldn't be here." He held his arms out dramatically. "And here I am!"

He didn't act like someone who was running for his life, and the good humor was infectious. Until a loud yelling broke the silence and the door was yanked open harshly, revealing a burly, unshaven man with a churlish demeanor, growling at them—at their waists.

Remy pulled away from the bell. "Ah, Puck. Did you miss me?"

"Gambit," Puck spat out.

"Les dames en premier, mademoiselle." Remy gestured her inside.

She had to brush past the little man to get through, but simply braced herself and slipped along by his heavy shirt and the smell of beer heavy on his breath.

She wrinkled her nose and kept going through the tiny little hallway into a tiny little living room with a giant, sagging sofa and the TV blaring ESPN. Despite the place being clearly low-income and well-worn, it was immaculate. The faint odor of antiseptic hung in the neat, bare kitchen.

Chere scooted up against a wall to make room for Remy. He was all business, striding over to the kitchen table and picking up a clipboard she hadn't even noticed.

"I see the good doctor is in," he said with a smirk.

Puck grunted and settled on the couch.

"Don't mind him," Remy told Chere. "He's just a two-bit thief."

"Two-bit my—"

"Shame, mon ami_!_"

Chere stifled a smile.

"Not in front of the lady."

The burly man turned around and eyed her up and down. She was surprised at how innocent the look was, but it was over quickly. He merely grunted again and turned back to the game.

She glanced at Remy. He was perusing the kitchen counter, reading labels on the little bottles and jars lined up against the walls.

"You're a thief?" she ventured.

He raised both eyebrows. "You have my memories and you didn't know _that_? Dieu!What _do_ I think about?"

She laughed. "Can't you be serious for half a second?"

"Not that I can tell," a woman's voice said drily.

Chere turned and saw a beautiful brown-skinned woman with dreadlocks and a doctor's coat standing in the doorway to another room. The woman adjusted her glasses.

"Gambit."

"Reyes." He gestured toward the clipboard. "Have a minute?"

Reyes sighed. "I guess I have to."

Remy settled into a kitchen chair, indicating for Chere to join him. She complied, choosing to sit directly next to him and face the doctor.

"What do you want?" Her voice was somewhat harsh, and Chere would bet she didn't like interruptions as a rule.

"Cece, play nice," Remy admonished. "This is Chere. You took her samples."

Chere shot him a sharp look. "My what?"

"Samples," Reyes repeated. "Yes. They were inconclusive. Some sort of agent that binds to mutant genetic material and affects brain patterns. To get more information, I'd have to experiment on people. I'd rather not."

Remy frowned. "Could it cause amnesia?"

Reyes looked startled, then frowned in return, looking thoughtful. "It could. Is that what you're experiencing?" She aimed this at Chere.

Chere tilted her head and nodded. "I don't really remember anything, 'cept what they tell me."

"They?" Reyes looked even more surprised.

Remy pulled off his shades and turned his most focused stare at her. "Who's they, Chere?" he prodded.

She shook her head. "The personalities. The people. I don't know what to call them."

"Well..." Reyes glanced toward Puck. "You're a mutant."

"Yes."

"Do you know what your mutation is?"

Chere was beginning to like this conversation less and less. The doctor in front of her was harsh and clinical, Remy was abetting the interrogation, and a headache was beginning to form as several personalities started fighting her on it.

"I don't want to talk about it," she ground out thickly. Her accent was more pronounced and she started to feel lightheaded.

She closed her eyes and reached in. Remy's hand on hers made her open her eyes again. He turned her chin so she'd face him and she watched, fascinated, as the red in his eyes brightened and expanded, almost hiding the black.

"Easy now, Chere," he said softly.

Peace rippled through her mind.

"Better?" He tucked back a bit of her white hair that had come loose.

She nodded.

Reyes quietly cleared her throat. "Perhaps..."

They both looked at her.

"Perhaps if you could tell me what exactly is going on in your head," the doctor began, "then I could find a way to help you."

Chere smiled grimly. "It's like having a school room full of immature adult students, mostly male, privy to your entire life. Sometimes they're quiet. Sometimes they get mean."

Reyes blinked at that. "And they remember what you don't?"

Chere shrugged. "They're not that forthcoming."

"She gets them through touch," Remy added.

Chere glanced at him.

Reyes blew out a sigh. "Well, for memory issues, I'd contact Blindspot."

Remy stiffened. "Non. Not safe."

"Well, that's all I can recommend." Reyes stood. "I have patients, Gambit."

"Ouais, je sais." He waved her away. "C'mon, Chere."

"Who's Blindspot?" Chere asked as he herded them towards the door.

"Just someone I know."

* * *

_"I don't know. What kind of a name is Wolverine?"_

She'd had a fire. From the first moment he met her, scared, lost, but uncowed and quick on her feet. She'd stood up to him. She'd stepped in for him. How could he not love her?

_"I'm not your father, kid."_

It had been both truth and lie, and both of them knew it. He was the closest thing she had to family. She was the closest thing to family for him.

_"I'm Rogue."_

Logan sighed and rubbed his face with a hand as he sat on the damp park bench. He missed her and her fire. He'd promised to take care of her, but she'd proven able to take care of herself.

_"It's coming back, Logan."_

He'd held her through the nightmares when her mutation returned. Most nights she woke up screaming.

_"I'll take care of you. I promise."_

Every job they ran, he made her touch him, absorb a little more of his healing power. It only lasted so long, and he refused to let her die.

_"I kind of like it."_

She'd grown from that scared, defiant girl he'd found in Alaska to a stunning, confident woman capable of doing anything. She could take him any day or tame him if she wanted to. She did neither. She stood beside him, arms bare to the world, and earned her own name.

_"You don't have to shake hands, Rogue. Just be rude."_

She'd laughed and learned and he was glad she had left the Institute. They were all about control.

_"I can still feel him in my head. And it's the same with you."_

She could never be controlled.

Logan dug his cell phone out of his pocket and glanced down at the number the French Canadian had given him. He dialed it. It rang three times.

"Bon matin. This is Mercy." The woman's voice was cheerful and professional. It was also very Cajun.

He settled in to talk. "Name's Logan. LeBeau told me to call."

A long pause. "Which LeBeau?"

"Just LeBeau."

He heard the shuffling of papers on the other end, a few keys tapped out on the computer. "I see," Mercy said, her voice still professional, but no longer cheerful. "You have a job for us?"

"I need to get in touch with—"

She cut him over. "I know who you want to talk to, but he is unavailable at this time. Do you have a job?"

Logan nearly growled. "He's the last person that was with my girl."

"Your girl?" Mercy sounded slightly confused. "Your girlfriend?"

"Daughter." Logan fudged the facts for simplicity's sake. "She's missing, and so is he."

"I see." More clacking. More shuffling. "We don't do missing persons too often, but we can at least look into this. Would you prefer to come to New Orleans or get in contact with the local branch?"

He froze. "Local branch? In Canada?"

She hummed appreciatively. "How close are you to Montreal?"

"Not at all."

"Then please find a way to New Orleans at this address." Mercy read it off slowly. "We'll see you as soon as you arrive." A brief pause. "And Godspeed."

* * *

Xavier's School for the Gifted was a regular chaotic nightmarish hell once the news about Rogue had sunk in. Storm had tried to contain the growing...well, storm...but had accidentally told Kurt in and Hank _apparently_ in the hearing of Jubilation Lee and that was all it took for _everyone_ to know.

Which meant a general meeting of the students and staff.

Which meant another headache.

Kurt was nice enough to stay near while she prepared for it, and even nicer to try to help control things when the students uproared.

She managed to calm them and inform them that everything was being done to try to locate Rogue. Meeting dismissed.

Storm was proud of Rogue's graduating class. They were staff now and took everything in stride. Bobby looked furious beneath his calm demeanor, but he kept his cool in front of the kids.

The staff settled into the War Room for the real meeting: Hank, Moira, Storm, Bobby, Kitty, Jubilee, Kurt, Piotr, Warren, and Elizabeth. Storm didn't wait for everyone to find chairs to begin.

"Kitty has already been hunting down any Internet leads, tracking bank accounts, etc. Could you give us an update?" She leveled her gaze at the smaller mutant.

Kitty sat straighter. "Nothing. I've tried hunting down anything tied to a '_le diable blanc_' but unless Logan comes up with a definitive lead soon on who uses that handle, I can't find a thing."

"What about tied to Rogue?" Bobby jumped in. The concern in his eyes was more open now that they were in more private quarters.

Kitty just shook her head. "Tried that first. It's like she's vanished. But I can always look again."

"Just keep looking," Storm said, "until you find something. Betsy?"

The purple-haired former assassin, Psylocke, turned in her seat and looked at Storm.

"We were hoping you and Jubilee could go up there and see if you pick up any traces." Storm raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"Why me?" Jubilee demanded.

"You're both Asian," Storm replied. "You look like you could be related and could poke around without raising as much suspicion."

Everybody stopped and stared at her.

She provided the rest of the details: helicopter, ground troops, explosion. Faces were pale by the time they all realized that Rogue had been in the middle of a possibly government operation.

Bobby spoke up at the end. "I knew her the best, possibly. Shouldn't I go?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Not if what Logan reported is true."

"Besides," Jubilee added. "She dumped you."

"Let's not start that again," Kurt admonished before the mudslinging could start.

Everybody had missed Rogue and most had felt guilty or accusatory about it. Nobody but Logan, Rogue, and Bobby really knew though what had caused her to leave them like she had. She did not keep contact with anybody either, except through Logan. That was mostly to piggyback on Logan's Merry Christmas wishes.

Storm simply smiled gently at Bobby. "I actually need you here to help Kitty for exactly the reason you said. What would she do? Where would she go?"

That same sad smile met everyone around the table.

"We just simply don't know."

* * *

Deadpool groaned as he waited for Zero to catch up to him. "You have to do that now?" he grumbled.

Zero merely glared.

"Yeah, fine, fine. I know that those who smoke simply _have_ to have their cancer sticks." Deadpool shook his head. "Take it from an expert: _don't_ go there."

They worked the locks and opened the front door to a _very_ nice apartment.

"The cat's got bucks," Deadpool noted.

The place was clearly expensive and well taken care of. He glanced around the walls. Nothing personal though. It seemed as though the occupant had no life, only work.

Zero vanished in the direction of the bedroom. Deadpool walked up to the desk and popped the laptop lid.

So far nothing was out of place. The target had probably gone out for lunch and would come back to them.

A screensaver was running.

Deadpool tapped the mouse.

The screensaver vanished, replaced by a desktop background of the Canadian wilderness and a small dialogue box running some sort of virus scan.

Deadpool grunted. Not even a lock on the screensaver. And they said this guy was dangerous!

The scan was just finishing up.

"Zero? You sure this is the right place?"

The last second ticked off.

The laptop exploded in Deadpool's hands, throwing him against the far wall. Further rumbles told him there were more charges. He yelled and then everything went black.

* * *

Chere woke in stiff sheets. She was disoriented for a moment. Remy's sheets were soft.

She sat up and looked around, then remembered. They were in a cheap little hotel room with two beds and Remy was out cold on the other.

She lay back down. "Sleep, girl," she whispered to herself, closing her eyes.

She drifted off.

_He waited in the back of her mind, waiting for her to return to REM. The part of him in here couldn't work too well when she was awake. Too many connections walled off and blocked. When she slept, doors flew open in the back of her mind. The psyches came out to play._

_He went to work._

_She was safely dreaming again and he floated invisibly toward the space the other "her" guarded. The other "her" was formidable and kept the enemy psyches out of her precious memories. Unfortunately, the other "her" couldn't even get at her memories right now. That left it up to him._

_The Prince of Thieves._

_Just like the big score, only this one was more important. She'd tried to save him and he would return the favor._

_The other "her" shoved back another psyche. He stilled and took note of the failed intruder: Pyro._

_That homme never did have what it took to be a thief. Upfront. In your face. Light a fire signal first._

_He hunched down and waited for the other "her" to finish her scan, then slowly, ever so slowly moved forward again. He sunk deeper into her unconsciousness. The memory patterns yielded after much resistance._

_He wondered if getting out would be harder than getting in._


	6. Une Nuit de Répit

I don't own the characters or universe or anything else that is the product of Marvel.

Thank you all for the reassuring comments, and I promise to be less needy in the future. I just totally freak out when entering uncharted territory, but from here on out, I _think_ I know what I'm doing. Hmm…

Well, grant you all fair warning. There are a lot of threads in this story. Chapters may have to get longer after this one. This chapter will be Romycentric, but after that, gotta strike more of a balance for the most part.

Sorry about how short this chapter is. I tried a lot of different additions, but pace-wise and timeline-wise, they just didn't work.

Thanks to **abthetis** for the chapter title.

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Six: **_**Une Nuit de Répit**_

_"A Night's Repose"_

- This is getting to be a habit. I've lost track, Chère, who rescues whom next? -

_Gambit, Uncanny X-Men #266_

* * *

Remy woke abruptly, the waves of nausea rolling in, and he staggered out of the bed, nearly stumbling. Reality skewed. He clutched his head with one hand, tried to steady himself with the other, almost knocked over a lamp.

"Merde! Maudit!"

He heard someone screaming, the sound distorted by the incoherent buzzing in his ears. The world lurched again and he fell back against the bed. Chere's terror washed against the edges of his extended empathy. He drew it back, holding his head.

He managed to make out some of her words. "Please! Where are you?"

Remy forced himself to move toward her, ignoring the spinning, swimming room around him. He had to reach her.

He spun out his empathy and drew against her emotions. If only she would let him calm her…

Abruptly, the hotel room swirled into sharp, highly detailed focus, as if he was seeing it for the first time. And he nearly fell as everything around him stilled.

Leaving a name.

He felt like cussing again. Even small updates could do this to him. And he couldn't stop for anything before verifying the changes. Remy scoured through his memories, searching for a match, finding the name and the memory and noting the differences. It was a rush job, but it would do.

He moved towards Chere again. This time, he kept his balance and was able to reach her, touch her, extend his empathy into her dreams.

"Chere," he said sharply and shook her.

She flailed about, fighting him. He held down her arms and called again.

* * *

_The flames burst through the wood of the door she was leaning against. She coughed through the smoke, but she didn't hurt. The fire didn't burn her. Her clothes shed burnt patches; her arms were scraped from the debris. She kept going._

_Have to find them, she thought. She had to reach her parents._

_"Where are you?"_

_Heavy arms snaked around her waist and began to drag her back and out of the house. She screamed. She clawed at the man. A firefighter, she barely registered._

"_They're alive! They're in there! I have to go get them!"_

_Unable to stop the flames. From the lawn, she could only struggle against the arms that held her and stare as fire consumed her house and her parents…_

"_No! They're alive!"_

The hold on her became fiercer and she could make out a name shouted at her. "Chere! Chere, wake up!"

She fought him and suddenly, she realized she wasn't dreaming and Remy's face was hovering worriedly over hers. She gasped and pulled her hands back. He relaxed his grip slightly.

"Chere?"

She could only gasp and shake her head, crying for the boy she wasn't. She wasn't him. She wasn't Pyro.

Her mind lurched sharply and the heat and the need for it shivered up her arms. The dark guilt. The rebellion. The emptiness in hands that held no lighter.

The personality shoved forward. She shoved back.

"I'm fine," she said tightly.

Remy frowned.

Chere sat up in the hotel bed with its stiff sheets and looked around, grounding herself in the here and now. She was Chere. Here. With Remy.

She returned her gaze to him.

His auburn hair hung messily in his face and some of it caught against the shading of stubble on his jaw. His eyes were a darker red than she'd ever seen them. His jaw clenched. His brows furrowed. He didn't believe her.

She hugged herself tightly, suddenly needing comfort. This was all wrong. She was supposed to be strong, to be able to deal with this. Her fingers wound through the metal chain of Wolverine's dog tags and she tugged against them, feeling the pull on the back of her neck.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

A shadow passed her line of vision on the right and she turned toward it and found herself turning into Remy's gloved hand as he pressed it against her cheek and brushed back the tears and tangled strands of brown and white. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

"It's all right, Chere," he said softly. "We all have our nightmares."

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

She had so many questions she wanted to ask. How long had they known each other? Did they mean something to each other? Why was he helping her? Where were they going? So much to say and to understand had been silenced by their need to leave. So much she wanted to know.

She remained silent as he stroked her cheek.

Such a small caress. Why did it feel so unusual? Had no one ever touched her like this?

Chere sighed and dropped her hand to her lap.

"Thank you, Remy."

* * *

Remy pulled away when she said that. He was never quite sure what to do with her. It would be so easy if she wasn't so vulnerable. He had never been able to resist a femme in trouble, and now was no exception. But something about her, something deeper than that, continued to draw him like a siren's song. Something it wasn't fair to Chere to respond to.

He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair.

Chere's emerald eyes watched him intently as he moved away and settled back on his bed. He kicked his feet up onto the mattress and sat leaning against the headboard.

They stayed that way for a long moment, silent and wrapped up in their own thoughts.

Chere suddenly shifted, drawing his attention. He watched her wrestle with the sheets until she found a comfortable position, knees protectively in front of her. She leaned against her own headboard.

He fished a deck of cards out of the pocket of his jeans and started shuffling them, not really looking, just needing to satisfy the itch in his hands.

"When do you smoke?" she asked, her soft voice falling in the darkness.

He hadn't expected that.

"I'm quitting."

He paused shuffling and flicked on one of the lamps, the one he'd unsettled earlier. The yellow light spilled mostly across Remy and cast Chere's face in shadow from the lampshade by her own bed.

He asked curiously, "Why do you want to know?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Because I don't really know you, and I'd like to. You know _me_ better than I know you."

He kicked up the shuffling again, this time watching as he did it. With a flick of his wrist, he drew the King of Hearts. It was instinctual by now.

"Not really, Chere," he finally answered. "You were out cold for most of our acquaintance."

Something flickered in her eyes.

He went on, letting the slapping, sliding sound and feel of the cards soothe his jitters. "Like I said, we were on a job when things went bad. But we were on opposite sides."

She raised both eyebrows.

"No animosity. Just sentries for a diamonds deal. We were there to make sure no one felt frisky." He shrugged. "Things went bad and you saved me." He stopped there.

Chere waited a short spell then asked, "What happened?"

"Bomb or something." He slammed the cards together in a stack and then set them gently on the nightstand. He looked at her, catching her with his gaze and reaching out to help her feel it. "All I know is I'm fighting hard one minute, then next thing I'm waking up in a wasteland. The only thing between me and it was you.

"I couldn't leave you, Chere. Not when you did that for a man you hadn't exchanged a word with." He shook his head. "I don't even know how you survived it."

She stared at him. Her eyes seemed full and he studied the way the light and shadow caught in the emerald hues. Her tousled hair slid across them when she leaned her head back further and exposed her throat. He wanted to touch her again, smooth out the tangles and pull them away from those eyes that looked at him with such trust when he wasn't worthy of it.

"So I guess we're even," she said softly.

Remy pulled his thoughts back sharply and frowned, unsure of her meaning.

She glanced away. "Are you sure you want to help me find Wolverine? You've got other things..." She gestured vaguely at the room around them. "...other situations to take care of."

"I promised you, Chere." He'd promised, even knowing how long it had been since he kept one.

Chere nodded. "If you're going to help me with that, then I'll help you with this."

He sat straight up in surprise, but her voice cut him off.

"We're even," she said firmly. "Let's keep it that way."

* * *

Remy's eyes seemed troubled, but she refused to soften the statement. He'd already given her far more than she had given him, even if he disagreed.

"Let's get some shut-eye." Chere pulled back the covers on her bed and slipped underneath them again.

Remy stayed still.

She glanced over at him. What was he thinking? His face was unreadable. Finally, very slowly, he started to climb back under his own spread.

"For now, Chere," she thought she heard him whisper.

She lay facing the window. She was wide awake now. She didn't really believe she'd sleep.

"Chere?" Remy's voice floated over to her. His tone was sharp with something. She didn't know him well enough to know what.

She turned toward him, letting that be her answer.

"Merci."

There were no words for that, any more than he had had words for her.

But words spilled out anyway. "No good to talk in the dark."

He caught his breath at her double meaning, but she heard a grim hardness in his voice when he answered. "You're the one that turned out the light."

She shivered. There were no words.

There never were.


	7. Le Rassemblement des Limiers

If you recognize it, chances are it isn't mine.

* * *

Thanks to all for your wonderful, inspiring, _prodding_ comments. I promised, **sleepy26**, **starlight2twilight**, and **lilmizz3vil**, and here is the MORE you asked for. (Slacking? :grumbles under breath: This was hard work!) And I know. More coming after that. Warm fuzzies to **RogueNya** and **DangingtilSunset** for liking the ending of chapter six. Glad you liked the dreams. Beautiful moments, **Laceylou76**? Aw, thanks! I hope to keep you guessing, though I'm sure you will be considering some of the folks in the shadows of the room below.

Yes, my comments on balancing out the storyline: let's recap. Logan is hunting for Rogue. The Hudsons are trying to help him. There's a whole lot of people hunting for Remy. The X-Men are on their way up north, while Logan runs south. And Remy and Chere/Rogue have their own thing going. Gotta strike a balance for the good of the hunt. :rubs hands together with evil grin: This is just too fun.

Fear not, my wonderful reviewer **DancingtilSunset**. Romyness will abound. Just not every chapter.

**coup fatal  
blah! I hate you and your awesomeness! lol. I loved it of course, fabulous as always :D**

Definitely, the most flattering review. Thanks, coup fatal! I'm starting to nervously await your reviews on new chapters as much as you nervously await my new chapters!

And gotta love the **ChamberlinofMusic**. Thanks for the intense review. I love reading through all your impressions. I was hoping for a little heat at a normal rate, so glad to see that pulled through. And definitely, Remy reached out. Chere got scared and backed away. In fact, I was surprised at how much the Rogue in her came out, even though she couldn't remember what makes her feel that way. She felt like she should be able to just _handle_ her powers acting up. She didn't want to be a burden or be so vulnerable to someone who didn't have a _reason_ to be doing all this for her. I think she's just plain scared. Read below for consequences.

And you are so right about Remy. "Remy wants to form a tie with her and yet she subtly rejects him." And with that too.

**mylove24**: "I loved how Rogue/Remy are growing closer together as each chapter is progressing." I love it too. The most important part of the story, no?

Have fun and please review!

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Seven:** _**Le Rassemblement des Limiers**_

_"The Gathering of Bloodhounds"_

- Yeah, this used to be called the Danger Room. -  
- But it never really felt dat dangerous. -  
- Until today. -

_Gambit, Foxx in the Attic Part One_

* * *

Mercy LeBeau walked quickly through the mahogany-paneled corridors of the labyrinthine Guild complex, passing through a grand hall with its vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows, and stopped to bang the heavy brass knocker on a thick, carved mahogany door. A muffled man's voice bade her enter and she stepped into the richly appointed office of the Patriarch of the New Orleans Thieves Guild, Jean-Luc LeBeau.

She ignored the plush leather couch just begging to be sat on, instead approaching his desk and standing next to a chair. The desk itself was a hundred year old affair covered with the modern conveniences of telephones, computer, and other equipment, mostly buried under a mound of papers.

He was on the phone now, but she snapped out a file for him to read.

"Oui, mon ami. That'll be fine." Jean-Luc managed a few more reassuring comments and extricated himself from the conversation. He eyed the phone warily after hanging up but took the file. "What is this?"

Mercy leaned one hip on his desk. "It's all Marius would give me on the whereabouts of his missing daughter."

Jean-Luc frowned, furrowing his bushy brows and fumbling for a cigar. His daughter-in-law watched impassively as he lit up. Mercy had known about the LeBeau habit of smoking before she married Henri and had forced him to quit before the wedding. Her influence did not extend to Henri's father.

He drew in a long breath and blew out a long stream of smoke to curl around his mustache.

He sighed. "You verify this?"

"Personally."

"So there's an auction." Jean-Luc dropped the file in disgust. "And nothing much I can do about it."

Mercy slitted her eyes in anger. "So you mean to say you can contract out your youngest _son_ through the Guild, but you can't manage to grant him the protections that go with it? Over fifteen assassins and bounty hunters besides the Boudreaux family, and you're telling me we can do nothing?"

The words flashed between them, instantly inciting his rage.

"What do you want from me, chère?" he bellowed. "He's _exiled_. I can only work with him as a Thief without a Guild."

Mercy handed him the second file. "A job came in. I said we'd look into it."

Jean-Luc scowled at her. "You've overstepped your bounds, Mercy."

She shrugged.

He yanked the folder from her grip and tore through it. He blew out another ring of smoke and grunted.

"He's coming here?"

"Oui," Mercy replied.

"I'll see him."

* * *

Bella Donna Boudreaux took two premier Assassins with her to the pool hall. She was lucky the location was in a state like Nevada. There was no other Assassins Guild with jurisdiction, and her rank could practically guarantee her the Guild contract if the Assassins took the job.

The room was dark with a low-slung ceiling and private pools of light around the tables and booths. She eyed the crowds, the laughter, the gambling with much distaste, but knowing this was how Remy had gotten quite a few contracts. In places like this.

She followed her guide, a tiny Asian female with long, silky black hair. The two Assassins stayed at her back. They reached a door in the back. Private room. Underwent a scan.

The room held a large, oval table with the light fading out into the black-shadowed corners of the long, rectangular room. Bella could feel and almost see the people standing around the shadows at regular intervals. The Asian took her cloak. Bella let her golden hair spill down around the tight dress obligatory for such meetings.

She sat at the table. An Assassin took her right hand (the female). An Assassin took her left (the male).

Others had arrived before her. Some she recognized; most she did not. The chips were on the table.

The blood was on the table, she thought, knowing the truth of what they were all there for.

The Hellfire Club was running the auction. Ostensibly, they weren't allowed to bid, but everyone knew that Mastermind and Bogan probably _would_ bid as individuals. Powerful mutants rarely were contracted for death. No. They were considered tools, captured, used or studied.

And in the shadows, people waited. The ones paying for all these assassins, bounty hunters, and mercenaries to come and bid on the right to take him down and bring him in. All of them had two things in common: ruthlessness and a desire for Remy LeBeau.

Bella Donna drummed her fingernails on the glossy tabletop.

Let the games begin.

* * *

Chere watched him from the room, sitting Indian-style on the bed, and looking through the open doorway to where Remy sat at a table clacking away on his laptop.

Something had changed between them since last night and she didn't like it. No more than she liked the shades she'd discovered he liked to wear when they were outside. No more than she liked the physical distance between them right now.

He was still friendly, still Remy, but that warm, almost too warm closeness she had felt from him was gone, replaced by this comfortable professionalism that grated on her nerves.

Remy frowned, concentrating on the screen.

Chere sighed and swung her legs off the bed. She approached him warily and settled on hand on his shoulder. He made no visible reaction.

"Chere," he said.

"What are you doing?" She leaned forward ever so slightly to look at the screen.

"Working," he replied shortly, but leaned back to give her a better view.

He was working all right, looking at a database screen with names and personal information on a list of what had to be criminals. She skimmed over the Occupation fields. Bounty hunter. Assassin. Thief. Mercenary. Fed. Informant. Spy. She cocked an eyebrow.

"My, what company you keep."

He chuckled and she reveled in the sound, still not moving her hand. The tiny touch was comforting. She wanted more but it would have to do.

Remy shook his head in amusement. "You're on it."

"What?" She leaned in and ran a finger down the screen, searching frantically for her name. Then paused, realizing just how close she was to him as the smell of his cologne washed over her senses. She could even feel the heat from his body.

Chere swallowed and backed away. "What do you mean?"

He tilted his head slightly, still smiling, still watching her. "I just added you," he explained. "Your new handle is _La Femme Fatale_. You're from Canada with the Thieves Guild of Montreal. I sent through on a private link, and they agreed to have you, _comprenez_?"

"Oui." She nodded, taking on the French accent with little thought.

He frowned. "Too Cajun. Find another one."

She blinked at him and went into her mind, sorting through her own language bank and found another French speaker among the personalities. "How's dis?" she asked.

"Bien." He nodded, satisfied. "Time to turn the tables, Chere, _non_?"

And the wicked gleam in his eye was enough to get a dangerous sparkle into hers.

* * *

"Whoa, man!" Jubilee stood hands on hips, surveying the damage. "Looks like a bomb went off!"

Betsy Braddock, a.k.a. Psylocke, nodded in agreement. They were standing on an overlooking bluff of rock, and below them was a vista of dead bodies, helicopter debris, and a long dead fire. Betsy had opted out of her usual revealing getup and worn hiking clothes and a backpack. Jubilee, her "daughter," matched her.

Jubilee worried on her lower lip. "Do you know what could've done it?"

"I think..." Betsy hesitated. She glanced over the area again, then answered decisively. "The helicopter exploded."

"Whoa!"

Trust the firecracker to sound like a kid at a scene like this.

Betsy took Jubilee's small hand in her own and made her way down the bluff into the actual site. She stopped at a small clear spot in the debris and reached out onto the astral plane.

Instantly, she was assaulted with pain, fear, and power. She gasped at the sensations. Someone had lost control. Power had spiraled out and destroyed everything. But some part of it—Betsy focused harder, nearly gritting her teeth—was directed. Intended.

"Betsy!"

She felt Jubilee shaking her and returned to the physical with a swell of relief.

"Are you okay?" Jubilee's eyes were wide. "You were groaning. Are you hurt?"

Betsy was about to answer when suddenly she yanked Jubilee behind her and took up a defensive stance.

A black-haired woman in a skintight black leather catsuit with only one shoulder strap was standing above them on the bluff, her eyes hidden behind red sunglasses, one hand cocked on her hip and the other hand holding a gun.

* * *

Tessa sat at a small computer console in the shadows at the edges of the room. She had pulled her thick black hair out of her way into an updo and donned the red glasses that allowed her to interface directly with the machine. Mastermind's daughter, Regan Wyngarde, stood beside her, one hand on Tessa's shoulder, both eyes on the gathering bloodhounds. Her blonde hair spilled freely onto bare shoulders beneath her cloak. (Always a trifle more vain than Tessa.) As all women of the Hellfire Club, even the young barely in their twenties, skimpy corset tops were their primary wardrobe choice. Both women, however, had drawn their cloaks tightly around them, hiding the view.

Tessa tracked the data packets for each job posting and coordinated with the various mercenaries and their demands. Most of the job offers were closed, open only to those present for the deal. Two also allowed virtual participation. Besides the twenty-eight in the room, Tessa had to keep a handle on another eighteen joining the game via computer.

A dialogue box popped up on her screen, another participant requesting to join. She reviewed the details of the packet, including minimum fee then stopped on the name. _La Femme Fatale_. Tessa glanced toward a cloaked figure standing in the shadows with the employers. A sapphire broach gleamed at the neck, gloved hand resting on the jewelled handle of a dagger, and the hood was pulled down low to obscure the face. It was unheard of for an employer to also offer services, but considering affiliation, Tessa mused, understandable.

She accepted the packet.

Deal would begin in two minutes.

Tessa closed out the game, disallowing any further requests for admission. Sebastian Shaw closed the doors to the private room, turning to stand with his face toward the table. Tessa moved to the middle of the oval table and settled her computer in front of her. Regan took her place opposite. Tessa wore black; Regan wore white. Around the room stood eight employers and nine other members of the Club, interspersed evenly. Tessa signaled Regan.

The Lady Mastermind straightened in her seat and dropped four decks of playing cards on the table. She gestured magnanimously at the gathering. "Thank you all for coming." Regan flashed her brightest smile. "We are pleased to host this round table event and to inform you that another nineteen members of our circle will join us virtually. Tessa?"

Tessa looked around the table, giving each a measuring glance. The Assassins Guild had weighted down one end of the long oval, and several Japanese mercenaries along with Blindspot held the other end. Between them were the middleweights, the bounty hunters that did a good job, the mercenaries and assassins not trained from the cradle by a real guild or clan. Basically, the ones whose skill would be barely enough. The only exception was Fontanelle, who would certainly be enough to _find_ Remy. She sat next to Regan.

"Joining us virtually," Tessa began and read off the names, slipping _La Femme Fatale_ in the middle. No one really reacted as the names were read, merely nodding at those they recognized.

There were a few startled glances though when she stopped. Not a single mercenary known to take Fed jobs was present. Which meant the governments were running their own hunt.

Lady Mastermind, or Regan, returned her own gaze to the group and slid each deck to the formerly chosen dealer: Bella Donna Boudreaux, Blindspot, Elektra, Fontanelle. All of the starting dealers were female.

Regan smiled coldly. "Let us begin."

* * *

A/N: I was going to add Logan getting to New Orleans in here, but sorry y'all. This chapter would take too long to post if I did. So here it is! Please review!


	8. Le Repaire du Diable

Yeah. Not mine. Who reads these anyway?

* * *

I love it when my muse actually shows up and goes to town. :happy smiles: :sigh of satisfaction:

Now to my lovely reviewers. You keep me writing! Here's more, **lilmizz3vil**. And it's quite enough for the time being. (And not that long a wait, **Roguechere**. Always like to please.) Hope the detail was enough on this chapter, **alexmonalisa**. I'm so glad you're enjoying this story. I'll try not to let it get confusing. Thanks, **RogueOnFire**, for the vote of confidence on that point. Fixed the spelling mistakes. Thanks for pointing them out. **Laceylou76**, you and me both. They seriously don't appreciate the Cajun enough if they want him dead. (Hope you like the bit with Blindspot.) And I'm fond of Rogue's new handle too.

Hope you like the Logan bits, **RogueNya**. I thought he fit _much_ better in this chapter. Not quite a battle, but not exactly a picnic either. I enjoyed writing the tiff. :snickers with glee: And thanks to **DancingtilSunset** re: character notes. Tell me if I ever mess up on Mercy. Logan is an overall favorite, of mine too. You'll see plenty more of him; don't you worry about that, **Roguechere** and **DancingtilSunset**.

To **RogueOnFire** and **ChamberlinofMusic**, Rogue has mastered her powers to a much greater extent since leaving Xavier's. Something about all that practice Logan gives her. He's never been afraid of her and he allowed her a wide space to figure them out. More of that will come out later, but trust me. This girl has been _changed_ by her time on the road with him. She really is a dangerous, beautiful woman. Or as **starlight2twilight** puts it, "Marvel ladies...are all the most ruthless of the characters. For real." I managed to squeeze in some Romyness for you, **starlight**. Keep an eye out for the doubling though. Recognition has some strange rules in this fic.

Thanks to **ChamberlinofMusic** for your usual faculty of finding all the hidden highlights. Well, most of them anyway. I love to read your evaluations of Rogue and Remy. And you are so right on about how Chere will be pulling on Rogue from here on out. More of Betsy and Jubes below!

Last but not least (not ever), to **coup fatal**, my prod alongside **starlight2twilight**: I loved your story about the front desk. Tried not to laugh at _my_ desk! I'll try and keep you happy. :big smiles:

Oh, and **coup**: is this long enough?

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Eight:** _**Le Repaire **__**du Diable**_

"The Devil's Lair"

- You must like playing with cards. -  
- I like Solitaire ok... that is, unless I got someone to play with. -

_Female Cashier and Gambit, X-Men (TV), 1992_

* * *

"Welcome to la belle ville de la Nouvelle-Orléans," Mercy said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Logan was surprised when he saw his address was a tiny hole-in-the-wall café, but had settled into a back corner table with a tall black coffee until this petite blonde stole the seat across from him.

"You're Logan, non?" she asked, tilting her head in question.

He took a sip of coffee. "Yeah."

"Then come." She stood and he stood with her. "The Guildmaster will see you now."

Guildmaster, huh? Logan wasn't really sure he liked the sound of that. Guildmaster of what?

* * *

Remy was playing with fire. He knew it even when he invited Chere to sit in front of him as they worked the game over together. She could probably play without him, but there were things he wanted to know. And he simply couldn't resist the opportunity to be close to the one woman he'd wanted for more than a single night since Bella Donna.

He settled Chere close to him and wrapped his arms around her to reach the computer. She didn't object and he enjoyed her soft scent mixed with his soap as she leaned back into him slightly.

They studied the computer screen as the opening deal was played out before them. The conversation was filled in on the left side at the bottom. The names of the participants occupied the right.

Sunfire. Blindspot. Abyss. Silver Samurai. Dominion. Rax. Avalanche.

Others were joining virtually like he and Chere were doing. As per usual, those names were not revealed, merely numbered. Remy recognized each name and knew that most couldn't take him alone. The Yakuza and Blindspot were exceptions. But what else was new?

He watched as Chere's cards appeared on the screen. The Ace of Spades. Twice. The ten of Diamonds. The Queen of Diamonds. The eight of Clubs.

It was doubledecked.

He studied the numbers. "You got this, Chere?"

She nodded, her hair brushing his chin.

He tugged her closer, allowing the heat of her body to ward off the chill that abruptly seized him. A double deck meant high participation. Four hands going meant this was beyond blood. He glanced down the names on the sidebar again.

"You better have this, Chere," he said.

She didn't move, merely weighing her cards and her decision. Finally, she spoke. "I've played this before."

He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at the statement. Her memories may not have been present, but the moments when she became whoever she had been still managed to give him pause.

She was a mercenary.

She'd played the game before.

Remy opened his eyes and watched her trail one nail across the conversation box. Nothing had been typed there yet. No one could play until it had.

* * *

Jubilee wasn't sure whether she wanted to be hiding behind Betsy or not, but since she wasn't given much of a choice, she decided to peek her head slightly around and watch the unfolding drama.

"Who are you?" Betsy demanded of the black-haired woman. Her arms were held up in some sort of martial arts gesture that Jubilee was just dying to know.

They never taught her the good stuff.

The woman on the bluff cocked one eyebrow above her red lenses. The gun remained trained on them.

"Betsy Braddock, I presume?" The voice was cold, the tone knowing, laced with venomous threat.

Betsy didn't respond.

"Your accent betrays you," the woman said very calmly.

Jubilee shivered.

Betsy was British originally. It was only through some unexplained event that the former assassin looked Asian. Of course, they never told _Jubilee_ these things.

"Who are you?" Betsy repeated through gritted teeth.

"LeBeau." The woman stared down at them, unmoving. "You will come with me."

"Over my dead body." Two knives formed of some sort of purplish energy materialized in Betsy's hands.

Jubilee tucked herself a little more behind her partner. This was going to go down bad. She suddenly realized just what was happening. This was really, _really_ bad.

LeBeau smiled faintly, and suddenly, Betsy was reeling backwards and nearly collapsing into Jubilee with a sharp cry. LeBeau leaned forward.

"We can do this one of two ways, Psylocke," she said with a cold, grim smile on her hardened face. "The easy way or the hard way."

Jubilee felt a cold chill run down her spine. She gripped Betsy's shoulders from behind. "Betsy?" she whispered.

The woman gritted her teeth in pain. "Just stay behind me. She's a telepath."

* * *

Logan followed Mercy into a waiting vehicle just outside the café and accepted her absently offered tidbits about the city they were passing through. He wasn't really interested, but he stored away the snippets in case he would find some use for them later.

"So how did you meet LeBeau?" Mercy suddenly asked.

Logan paused, sizing her up. The question was offhand, asked in the same manner the tour had been given. He had a feeling it was anything but casual.

"Hudson," he replied.

She merely nodded. "Always them, it seems," she mused. "LeBeau is the family name out here. Try not to be confused."

With that comment, the car came to a stop outside of a ancient church-like structure in the heart of one of the neighborhoods she had been rambling on about.

Mercy got out of the car, waited a moment for him to follow, then waved the driver on. She walked up the stone steps to the stone building. He peered in the cloudy stain-glassed windows.

"Nice digs," he said drily.

She turned that same almost-smile on him again and opened the heavy door. "I suppose you could say that."

He felt like he was stepping back into another century.

Mercy's heels clicked on the polished wooden floors until she stepped onto a rich, almost velvet carpeting that ran down the length of the hall. The walls were paneled with hand-carved mahogany, and light streamed in through the tall windows. The ceilings vaulted in intricate patterns. Gold fixtures and priceless paintings accented the expensively decorated great hall.

"Not exactly strapped for cash, are you?" He narrowed suspicious eyes at Mercy.

She stopped, glanced over her shoulder at him. "The Guildmaster will see you."

He studied her until she very deliberately turned around again and began to walk into what appeared to be a labyrinth of corridors. Slowly, warily, he followed.

* * *

Emma Frost stepped cautiously into the machine, raising her mental senses to caress the whispering echoes of thought rolling about the round chamber.

"You have your own Cerebro?" she asked, her mouth quirking about the edges.

Heather Hudson shook her head and started back down the ladder. "Close, but not exactly. Wait until I get out of here before strapping in."

Emma merely laughed. She settled into the chair and closely evaluated the controls. "I think I can handle this."

"Good." Heather backed out of the small door at the bottom of the ladder. "I'm leaving now. Godspeed."

The door shut.

Emma placed the headpiece over her hair and watched the physical world blank out before her, vanishing beneath the cold, white metal. Strength dripped then puddled in her mind. She waited and a thrust of energy overtook her. The image of Gambit rose unbidden from her memories. She raised her arms in the growing astral plane.

The launch was sudden. She was thrown outward on her expanding consciousness and thoughts, voices began to flood her mind.

She searched for Gambit. Only him.

* * *

Chere massaged the keys lightly, keeping herself from actually tapping them, as she waited for the conversation to become active.

She didn't argue when her other self had risen up within her and taken over with a ruthless dispassion, ready to play for the hunt. She felt Remy's arms warm around her, his chest against her back, his breath in her hair. It should have been a distracting position to work in, but she welcomed the grounding sensation. Surprisingly, she wasn't distracted.

_'You all know, of course, why we're here,' _the moderator typed out. _'I always enjoy our get togethers.'_

The conversation as always was innocuous. How could anyone know what it really meant?

_'I'm sorry that Gambit couldn't be joining us. I heard he was called back for a reunion.'_

The box ungrayed. The ball was rolling. First job on.

Chere watched as the bidding went round the table slowly.

_'Of course, he couldn't help but go,' _typed Blindspot. _'But if I know him, there's a few places he might hide out.'_

_'Knows his way through the underground, huh?'_ asked Avalanche.

Chere waited her turn patiently.

Remy dropped his hands from the table and wrapped them around her waist instead. She glanced at him sideways. His red eyes remained fixed on the screen.

"That Gambit," he said with a small, low chuckle. "He's a popular one, non?"

He'd played before too. She returned her attention to the game.

* * *

Mercy led Logan to a pair of heavy wooden doors. She rapped sharply with the brass knocker and waited until they heard a muffled reply.

The doors opened to reveal a richly appointed office, also filled with expensive throw rugs, a monster of a desk hearkening back a century at least, art that belonged in museums, and ancient books lining the shelves that probably belonged in museums too. Logan took it all in quickly with an expert eye. He doubted this "Guild" did anything particularly legal.

A tall, dark-haired man studied the two of them from behind the desk, steepling his fingers together. "Thank you, Mercy," he rumbled out at last.

Mercy vanished and the heavy doors fell shut.

* * *

Remy read the conversation grow slowly, like sand dripping through an hourglass. The usual words flittered here and there. They all had assets to recommend them. Most didn't know him personally though. Blindspot held one of the best chances so far.

Dieu, he hoped she didn't get the job.

Chere leaned forward and typed, then clicked to throw her chips on the growing pile.

He pulled her head back slightly to read her words.

_'I've seen him around. He's as handsome as they say.'_

Remy wanted to freeze. Instead, he forced his body to relax and tucked his hands back at her waist. Chere had just upped the ante. Blindspot fired back her quickly, lest she lose the advantage.

_'He certainly is. Though he runs through women like water.'_

The game was getting sharp. He wished he could read the other hands, but knew he'd have to wait—if they'd get a look at those at all.

* * *

Betsy held Jubilee's hand tightly in hers as they followed the woman called LeBeau through dark, underground tunnels lit at intervals by old-fashioned torches. She had given up asking questions. All her attempts to use telepathy were thwarted easily and hand to hand combat was nearly impossible with the current weakness and pain brought on by their mental battle.

She couldn't help but wonder how Rogue had gotten involved in something so dangerous. Everything she had heard about the girl indicated someone who tried to stay _out_ of trouble, but then, since when did Logan do that?

* * *

Logan faced the Guildmaster from across the desk. The two men were almost equally matched, and Logan remained wary.

"My name is Jean-Luc LeBeau," the Guildmaster said. "And you're Logan?"

A grunt and a nod.

Jean-Luc frowned thoughtfully. "I've reviewed your case and have a proposition for you."

That's what it always came down to, wasn't it? Logan knew from harsh and painful experience that there was always a price to pay, often in blood. This man weighing him so carefully knew that and was judging what price to demand, Logan would warrant. He was at a disadvantage. He would pay any price.

It was Rogue.

"Shoot," Logan said casually, as if it was nothing.

Neither man gave anything away.

Jean-Luc sighed and tossed a file folder across the desk to land near Logan. "You say your daughter was last seen with Le Diable Blanc?"

"Yes." He didn't touch the folder.

"You know his other name?" Jean-Luc asked.

"You mean Gambit?" Logan leaned back in the chair. It was a fairly comfortable one. Expensive.

Jean-Luc's eyes gleamed fiercely. "Oui. I mean Gambit." He measured Logan again. "You're the Wolverine, non?"

Logan gripped the armrests and moved forward more quickly than Jean-Luc could react to. He was up in the Guildmaster's face, snarling, "How do you know that?"

Jean-Luc remained perfectly calm, a trait Logan grudgingly admired. "We're the Thieves Guild. It's our job to know."

Thieves, huh? Logan sat back and studied the man before him. Something was afoot for LeBeau to give him this as a contact. "How do you know Gambit?" he asked warily.

Jean-Luc grimaced. "He's my son."

That gave Logan pause. A long pause. An evaluating pause. He frowned.

_Le Diable Blanc_.

Thieves Guild.

Gambit.

The Cajun.

"So you know where she is?" Logan demanded.

"Non." Jean-Luc smiled thinly. "But I can help."

There was an if, hanging in the air, Logan could smell on the man's tongue. "And?"

"If you'll help us, then we'll help you."

Logan settled in again, comfortable with where the conversation was heading, having had many, many like it. "I'm listening."

* * *

Blindspot maintained a blank expression as she looked at her cards. She had a good hand and was a good bluffer, but the idle-seeming chitchat was just as important to her getting the job. Of course, there were several other jobs. She glanced into the shadows.

But she wanted this one.

She didn't really want Gambit dead.

* * *

Tessa LeBeau stepped into her mentor's library. A fire glowed in the fireplace and the curtains had been flung open on the cold Montreal morning. She crossed over to a window and stared out.

Patience had always been a requirement for her since her mentor had taken her in and placed her in his upper echelons. She waited patiently for him, knowing that he would appear when it was time. Her guests waited with her, though unwitting for the most part, in the lushly appointed rooms that had been prepared for them.

A wind blew across the city with ominous portent.

* * *

Jean-Luc didn't like working with mercenaries. He never had. So he was more than surprised to see Wolverine, a Canadian self-healing, clawful of a dangerous loose cannon show up with a job for the Thieves Guild. More surprised when he opened Mercy's folder and discovered what the job was.

The Thieves Guild didn't do missing persons.

Then he read the comments. Last seen with Diable Blanc. Last seen with his son. He remembered the phone conversation Henri had relayed to him. Put it together with Bella Donna's whereabouts. Remembered authorizing the instant silence concerning all things related to his youngest son.

And realized the potential.

As Patriarch of the New Orleans Thieves Guild, Jean-Luc was required to uphold certain rules of Remy's banishment, not limited to leaving Remy to fend for himself against contracts. But with this girl being with his son, he could bend those rules. He could allow the Wolverine to do it for him.

He'd agreed to the meeting.

Even if he hated mercenaries.

* * *

Remy disentangled from Chere when she dropped her cards for the draw. He went into the hotel room's kitchenette and retrieved two glasses of water. He set one by her hand. She sipped on it, then sent her fingers flying across the keys again.

The Yakuza and Blindspot were still in. As was Chere and number 10, whoever that was. Everyone else had been fairly well outbid or outclassed.

He scooted Chere forward and settled behind her again. She leaned back and studied her new cards.

Two Aces of Spades. A Queen of Diamonds. A Queen of Hearts. A ten of Diamonds.

"Nicely done, Chere."

"Merci." She picked up the glass of water and sipped on it again. "And it's _Femme Fatale_."

He grinned.

* * *

"You mind?"

"Non." Jean-Luc chuckled and pulled out his own cigar. "Been hoping you'd ask."

The two men leaned back comfortably to discuss. Logan listened as Jean-Luc sketched out a few brief details of what they knew about Rogue. The fact that they had her profile with Department H didn't exactly sit well with him.

"And Gambit?" he asked.

"There's a contract on his head," Jean-Luc said bluntly. "Maybe more than one." He didn't mince words, did he? "He's been pulled off of any jobs and given his head to save his own hide." He blew out a ring of smoke.

"And?" Logan prodded.

"And my hands are tied." Jean-Luc frowned. "Messy family business, but it means I can't interfere for him. I'm not a mercenary or an assassin. I don't have the right contacts to find out what's going down. We give you everything we have on where he is and what he's doing—_everything—_and then you find out who wants him and why. You get your girl; he gets some sort of protection."

Logan looked at the Cajun Thief, blowing out his own ring of smoke. Child for child. They were both in the same boat, helplessly watching their worlds ensnared in this deadly game of life for life.

He took the folder off the edge of the desk, flipped it open, and skimmed its contents. He grunted at intervals. _Le Diable Blanc_ was in deeper than anyone thought, it would seem. Logan already knew his answer, but he considered everything on the page.

"Full disclosure," he said. "I don't want any surprises and I want any questions immediately answered. Any time I call."

Jean-Luc nodded. "We give you every resource at our disposal. You'll have a list of contacts for each branch of the Guild. Whatever you need, it's yours."

Logan closed the folder and tossed it back across the desk.

"We'll deal."

* * *

The door opened behind Tessa LeBeau and she listened carefully as her mentor entered on silent tread and settled at his desk. He liked to spend hours looking into the fireplace and she didn't doubt he was doing it now.

Patience had always been a requirement for her, so she waited, knowing she would know when he was ready to speak.

* * *

A/N: I better get some good reviews off of this one. It's the longest chapter I've written to date!


	9. Anges de Lumière et de l'Obscurité

Thank you to **DisdainfullyArrogant** for the French and to **PlonkerOnDaLoose** for the beta.

BIG A/N HERE: I am ignoring Wolverine's Origins movie for the creation of this fic and playing rather loosely with the comics. This is MY X4 if you want to look at it that way, so I can play with things however I want. Including a feature of Remy's powers that is definitely NOT comicverse canon. Quite the contrary. but I wanted it, so I implemented it.

* * *

Thank you to **HeavenlyAngel**, **Special2**, **Writer in the Night**, **lilmizz3vil**, **weebird**, **Laceylou76**, **starlight2twilight**, and **company** for stating your love for this story and/or asking for a quick update. I did this chapter over the weekend; just had to wait for the beta to come in AND be implemented. And yes, **S2T**, I _promise_ a huge long chapter to follow up before I update anything else (except maybe a drabble - those don't really count). Sorry all _Son o' de Guild_ readers; **starlight2twilight** hollered louder.

As to the LeBeau business—**Sirius-Black-is-not-dead** (thanks for the comliments), **RogueOnFire**, and **ChamberlinofMusic**—I'll drop out this little bit for those not familiar with comicverse: Tessa/Sage (no last name in comics) is a black-haired Slavic telepath with a computer-type mind and the ability to jumpstart mutations that Xavier found alongside his original team and sent undercover with Hellfire Club. She also ends up falling for a guy trained in Guild ways (Bishop). Um...history in _Without a Trace_ will be revealed slowly, but that's comicverse.

**Sirius-Black-is-not-dead** (The Gambit scenes disappointed, the admantium bullet thing was dumb, and how in the world is _Emma_ supposed to be able to be related in any way to Silverfox {an Indian, mind you}? :growls at makers of _Origins_:, but definitely could be a blessing this memory loss for Rogue); **DancingtilSunset** (Thanks much! Yep, they're bidding on Remy's contract. And totally, it's going to be quite a choice for her once she's finally 'found.'); **weebird** (Wow! Thanks!); **Roguechere** (LOL - Thank you much! I'm thinking I'm going to leave Blindspot mostly a mystery here, because she's key to the plot. Hint: So is Sunfire.); **Laceylou76** (Glad you liked the cutting, going to have to do more of it later for the sheer usefulness of the technique.); **RogueOnFire** (LOL - You caught me. The funny thing is the idea for using poker came separately for both fics, but now that you point it out, it's hilarious. And yeah, I had Remy help her at the end. :grins:); **starlight2twilight** (Love you girl! Keep feeling it!); **alexmonalisa** (You're starting to sound like me. :grins: Thanks for the compliments and the Psylocke. Trying to be good with her.); **burgundyburning** (Oooh! Love your comments. More Romy; more dads taking care of business, and more memory/psyche madness to come!); and **RogueNya** (my favorite - or one of - Thank you! and boy, are they gonna flip! LOL).

To **ChamberlinofMusic** (you get your own paragraph for sheer length of review!): start with Thank you! Love your reviews. I had fun writing the Wolverine coming out and intend to delve much deeper into Guild business as soon as I can handle it. (Next chapter.) Remy is playing with fire, but he can take a few minor burns. :grins: Besides, how would Romy be fun without turning up the heat? :smirks shamelessly: Yeah. Logan stay out of trouble? The odds for that just aren't good. And full throttle doesn't begin to cover his training of the Rogue...

Believe me, the Betsy/Jubes thing is going to last a while. :rubs hands together gleefully: And Blindspot is a mercenary, wants the money, but doesn't want to kill a good colleague. Any more about her delightfully twisted history with the guy, I'll keep under wraps for now. But thanks for asking...

Love you all! Please enjoy the next chapter. After this, the real fun begins!

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Nine:** _**Anges de Lumière et de l'Obscurité**_

_"Angels of Light and Darkness"_

- What yer doin' is suicide! Cajun, you're the closest -- help 'im! -  
- Non, _that_ would really be suicide. 'Bout time everyone on this team started trustin' that everyone else on this team knows what they're doin'! -

_Wolverine and Gambit, Uncanny X-Men #367_

* * *

Chere let slip a Japanese curse word when Blindspot's hand went down. A Full House.

Remy leaned in close, breathing out a hot whisper on her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that she quickly repressed. "Didn't know you spoke Nihongo, chèrie."

"Is that what it is?" she drawled out, making herself sound unaffected.

She studied the cards as each hand was shown, reading for patterns of betting against their hands. The Silver Samurai had folded. Abyss, Rax, and Dominion, besides a handful of numbers, were neatly blanked out after a moment. Still in were Blindspot, Sunfire, #19 (Femme Fatale), #10, #16, and Avalanche.

"I'm ranked fourth," she said bluntly. "Who might this reunion be with, Gambit?" She craned her head to look at him.

Remy gave a wolfish grin but no verbal answer.

"If I need help..."

"That's what I'm here for, Chere," Remy tossed back. He trailed one hand slowly up her back then rubbed it in a soothing motion. "Just say the word."

"Yeah." She refocused on the screen. "Stop doing that."

His hand fell away. A low chuckle came from behind her.

She rolled her eyes.

His life was on the line and he still seemed to think about having fun.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" she asked.

Remy's reply was quick. "You want a list?"

Chere nearly choked on her response. She twisted around and pinned him with a glare. "You want to keep distracting me and get you killed?" she demanded.

His knowing smirk did not improve her mood.

She turned back to the computer. "You didn't flirt before."

"You were also my charge," he answered reasonably.

"Yeah, well, stop." Somehow, she seriously doubted he would.

* * *

Deadpool tapped a pencil on the conference room table. His red mask hid the livid facial expression he wore as he listened only halfheartedly to the Heads yammering on about why this particular mutant was so important to their plans and who their sources were about him and blah, blah, blah.

"Cool it," Zero leaned over and whispered.

Deadpool jerked a shoulder.

Silver Fox turned a cool, knowing gaze on him and cocked one eyebrow, but did not speak.

Deadpool ignored his teammates. His anger burned hotly as he remembered again waking in the rubble of _Le Diable Blanc_'s apartment, realizing how much of himself had been hurt yet again and how much exposed.

He was going to personally see that the mutant arrived in this facility. He just wouldn't guarantee what condition the mutant would arrive in.

* * *

"Oh, crap!" Betsy stared in dismay at the small rectangles cut out in the stone.

Jubilee scrambled down from her perch on Betsy's shoulders. "Well, if that's the ventilation system, we're not getting out that way."

There were no windows in their gorgeously appointed underground rooms, and no way out that they could find except the front door. Two guards stood on the other side of that and at regular intervals down the hallway.

Their rooms _were_ nice. Beautiful canopy beds, antique furniture that looked almost brand new with the care it received, expensive tapestries, gold fixtures in the bathroom, Persian rugs. This was hardly a comfort to Betsy.

"Jubes, try another paf," she ordered, referring to Jubilee's name for her creations.

With a longsuffering sigh, Jubilee lifted her hands and out slipped a shimmering globule of energy. It floated upward toward the vents and then exploded with a gigantic BOOM! The ground didn't shake. The wall hangings barely moved. The stone stood firm.

"Happy now?" Jubilee asked after Betsy viewed the results of the fifth try.

Betsy sighed. "No."

"I'm sure we'll see the big man soon, whoever he is," Jubilee reassured.

Betsy gave a weak smile. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

* * *

Tessa studied the players around the table. Regan finished relocating those who were weeded out on the first round. They could join other rounds after the first four jobs had been given out. In the meantime, the employers carefully reviewed their options, updated details on the tiny computer consoles at each seat. The remaining players evaluated the updates.

Tessa paid special attention to two rounds: the one Boudreaux was bidding on for a kill and the one the Yakuza and Blindspot were bidding on for a capture. Both allowed virtual participants and that was Tessa's specialty.

The boss came slowly toward her. She lifted her head towards Shaw.

He bent down and whispered, "The employer doesn't want Blindspot."

She glanced in that direction, surprised. Blindspot had certainly bested out most of the competition on that hand. But it was not Tessa's right to question. She nodded and made a note, hoping that the competition was _very_ good.

"Perhaps the Yakuza?" she whispered back, probing.

Shaw shrugged and returned to the door.

Tessa and Regan exchanged glances. Regan shrugged.

With a tiny sigh, Tessa initiated the deal.

* * *

Logan was perusing the paperwork in that same out of the way café when he got the call. He glanced at the caller ID, then answered, "Hudson."

Hudson cursed. "Logan! This is a secure number. How do you know who called?"

Logan merely grinned. "What have you got for me, Jim?"

"He's wanted alright." Hudson's voice was grim. "Another Department has loosed some ferrets looking for him. I can't guarantee any protection, but Heather's got a gal working on finding him first. See if we can get _your_ girl out of this."

Logan leaned back in his chair. "The Feds want him?"

"The Feds in three countries," Hudson replied. "And apparently, a few private persons. They're warning our neighbors that there'll be interference on the capture. You know that's never good."

Logan grunted.

"Look. We're working on it."

"Yeah," Logan acknowledged. "I'm on it too. Got some leads. See what I can do."

"Godspeed."

* * *

A new hand was dealt. Remy studied Chere's cards carefully and inwardly cursed. Definitely not a made hand.

Chere tensed in his grip and leaned forward.

The two of Clubs. The five of Hearts. The eight of Clubs. The Jack of Spades. The King of Diamonds.

"You got this, Chere?" Remy asked again, slight tension dancing in his voice.

She propped her chin up on an open palm. "How good are you at making miracles?"

He sighed and gently pushed her from the chair. She settled on the corner of the table and turned the laptop slightly so they both could see.

"You tell me what to type for chat," he said. "I'll play."

Chere nodded and answered softly, "Play time."

* * *

Tessa LeBeau turned from the library windows, taking in the ancient fireplace with the few personal items on the mantel, and ended facing her mentor's desk. He was staring into the fire again.

She hated Montreal. Paris was nice and New Orleans all he had claimed of it, but she didn't like Montreal. They had been staying in Canada for a year and a half now, posing as French Canadians.

"Is it worth the gambit?" she asked, her tone flinty. In private, she didn't sound French at all.

His intense gaze suddenly shifted to hers. No one had ever cowed Tessa, but he came the closest. His graying hair couldn't hide the powerful, canny survivor within him—or his attractiveness. He had always been handsome, and age unfortunately hadn't changed that.

"Oui," he said smoothly, long after she thought he wouldn't answer. "It always is, non?" And his red eyes gleamed in the odd mix of daylight and firelight.

"If I fail?"

His jaw set. "You will not."

There was no give in that face, those eyes. She loved him. She hated him.

Tessa turned back to the window. "They came."

Her mentor's voice sounded almost amused. "I know."

* * *

Emma scoured the hordes of mental signatures before her. None of them, not _one_ of them, matched Gambit. She searched from Canada to Mexico and still came up dry.

She wanted to grind her teeth with frustration, but merely continued scanning. The power from the machine buoyed her, carrying easily over whole oceans.

Where _was_ he?

* * *

King of Diamonds. Jack of Spades. Remy dumped the other three and wished for a moment he could hold the actual cards in his hands. It was easier to play in person.

Chere sniffed disdainfully at the chatters. "Put in, 'Only an amateur walks in blindly.'"

He grinned. She certainly knew how to throw Avalanche off the game.

_"Well, this 'amateur' knows his way around better than you," _came the disgruntled reply.

_"Would that be before or after the job with Olan?"_ Sunfire fired off.

Chere raised an eyebrow. Remy didn't bother to explain, but Avalanche had botched that job badly.

The cards came back.

King of Hearts. Ten of Clubs. Ten of Diamonds.

"Two pair." Remy evaluated the numbers. A fairly high two pair, but not quite what he'd been hoping for. "Bluff."

She slid closely to the computer, nearly hanging over him, her scent washing across his senses. Unlike Chere, it didn't distract him at all. In fact, he grinned wolfishly at the familiarity.

"Let me run the keyboard."

He handed it over and watched her fingers fly. She bluffed all right. Her confidence showed through quite well as she nearly butchered the other players claim to proficiency. It was getting ugly.

_"Never met a woman that could bring him down,"_ Blindspot noted.

_"Of course, you never met a woman in my circles,"_ Chere fired back.

Sunfire jumped in. _"He's smart to women. Takes them himself."_

_"I'm certain that's how he got tied to the Assassins."_

Remy intook sharply. "No need to bring that up now, Chere."

"Do you want to win or not?" Chere demanded, turning to glare at him only centimeters from his face. "I know what I'm doing, d'accord?"

He chuckled lightly. "D'accord." His gaze sharpened. "But don't put something out there they don't know."

"Seeing as Bella's bidding on another job, I'm not concerned." She turned back to her keys.

Remy leaned back and watched her.

* * *

_Don't do it._ The voice of a soft-faced girl with bright blue eyes and chocolate-colored curls about her face.

Pyro piped up. _Quit telling her what to do. None of your business._

_We're in here too,_ said the boy she knew had once loved her. _We have a right to tell her what's right and wrong._

_Do not allow yourself to be distracted, my girl,_ said the silver-haired man with his grave dignity.

_How 'bout you all shut up and let her work?_ Wolverine threatened the rest of them.

Chere ignored them, these angels of light and darkness pulling her this way and that. Instead, she pulled deeper and deeper within for her own self, for a demon-eyed Thief and gambler, for the strength of the Wolverine, and went in for the kill.


	10. Le Code des Voleurs

A/N: As promised, **S2T**. To all of you, **starlight2twilight** is the reason this is posted so crazy soon. Thanks to **abthetis** for the French help on this chapter. And thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Thank you to **lilmizz3vil** (Bella Donna has issues, but I won't demonize her. She was raised by Assassins, poor thing. :snickers:), **RogueNya** (I don't wish. Too many crazies hanging around. LOL), **starlight2twilight** (Long enough? LOL Thanks for the compliments. And I'm going to deliciously enjoy Remy's open season. Just not this chapter. Too much training to do. As for the contracts, there are eight of them.), **Roguechère** (seconds and thirds in this fat chapter), **AshmandaLC **(Gotta love Remy! And I hope to keep everything getting hotter. Mmm...), **Laceylou76** (hope I played everything out well enough), **abthetis** (the movie overall wasn't aweful, just certain details. I mean, here I am researching away in comicverse, and they butcher it worse than X3!...Oh, well. Thanks for the compliments. And I totally love Hugh Jackman.), and **coup** **fatal** (Yes, ma'am. The plot just got crazy thicker. I told y'all. Watch out for doubles. :grins shamelessly: More to come!).

This still has to go to beta, but I promised I'd post it and just add in the changes. So enjoy!---Thanks, **PlonkerOnDaLoose**, for the beta.

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Ten:** _**Le Code des Voleurs**_

_"The Way of Thieves"_

- Boosted? -  
- You stoled those radios? -  
- Gimme a break. I'm getting lectured on taking things that aren't mine by a pick pocket and a member of the Thieve's Guild? -

_Storm, Gambit, and Marrow, X-Men Unlimited #32_

* * *

Blindspot noticed the infinitesimal frown from Tessa and though she acted as if she hadn't, she had. She knew she'd lost the contract.

The girl cursed her opponent, the unheard of _La Femme Fatale_. Her eyes ran lightly over her cards, though she considered throwing them down on the table for all the good they would do her. But no. She would play this out.

Blindspot glanced toward the shadows and the other employers about the edges of the room. There were other jobs for a capture.

Surviving had never been a problem for _Le Diable Blanc_, the Gambit. Blindspot smirked and her eyes began to dance. No, she would take a job for capture. Surviving would be up to him.

* * *

Katherine Pryde, or Kitty as she was known, had had a nightmare of a time hacking through information for the nebulous, vague, nonidentifying words _Le Diable Blanc_. The White Devil. Cajun. She'd narrowed her search to New Orleans and been at it for almost three days straight.

Bobby had taken to occupying the room behind her, pacing mostly, muttering sometimes, bringing her food and answering questions when she asked him to.

"Bobby!"

"What?" He was instantly at her side, peering at the computer screen.

She placed one hand on his shoulder and shoved him neatly back. "Stop wearing a hole in my carpet."

He stared at her, confusion in his eyes. "Your carpet?"

"Yes!" Kitty shook her head despairingly, patted his shoulder again, and turned back around to the monitor. "I've found him."

"What?" His face hovered over her shoulder next to hers.

This time she shoved him by the head.

"Ow!"

"I found him as a _baby_, dimwit." She glared at him. "Now, get out of here and give me ten minutes to myself, okay?"

* * *

Sunfire studied Blindspot with guarded eyes and demeanor. She twirled one finger carelessly in her thick, black hair falling around her face as lovely as any of the woman of his homeland in Japan. She had changed her mind, from what he could not say and to what he could not either. But she had changed it.

He raised and tossed his chips on the pile.

The conversation flowed in eddies around the table. Most realized the employer had probably decided. The tie-breaker, of course, was the hands.

They dropped them.

These hands were lower scoring than the ones before. Avalanche sported a One Pair. Blindspot a Diamonds Straight. Rax dropped down Two Pair. Dominion folded. As the cards went round, the highest was a Four of a Kind from #10.

Sunfire, Shiro Yoshida of the Yakuza, laid down his own cards, cursing them as he did so. Ten of Hearts. Ten of Spades. Ten of Diamonds. Ten of Diamonds. Ace of Clubs. Four of a Kind. With the Ace, he had the highest hand.

The last hand down was _La Femme Fatale_'s. She had the highest ranked Two Pair on the board. A pair of Kings.

The pot should have been split between #10 and Sunfire, but he knew with Blindspot and _Femme Fatale_'s additional work during the hand, it could very well be a draw.

Lady Mastermind rose regally from her place at the table and dropped the deck in the center of each round before talking quietly. Finally she reached theirs and dropped it.

"The packets will be delivered by Sage within the next twenty-four hours," she said quietly.

Sunfire was shepherded away to the side and not given the option to return to another table. He had the job. That much he knew.

"Lady Mastermind." He caught the woman on her shoulder, over the cloak. As a child taken to such an event, he had once seen what the women here wore under their cloaks. Not much.

She turned in a swirl of her long, golden hair. Very American.

He asked softly, "Will I work alone?"

"The information will be in your packet," she said demurely, as if _she_ was anything like demure, then returned to her place at the table.

Blindspot had also returned to the table, a sharp look on her face.

Interesting. Shiro Yoshida frowned. Very.

* * *

Chere woke to a light buzzing beneath her arm. Her eyes flew open, then shuttered. A soft ding chimed from Remy's laptop. It was under her other arm. She sat up stiffly, looked around. She must have fallen asleep on the couch. She glanced at the clock. Three hours ago. At the end of the game.

The phone was still buzzing.

"Oh." She clutched at it, got a grip, and flipped it open. "Oui?"

Remy told her to talk French any time she answered the phone.

"You received the packet?" a dry female voice inquired.

Chere sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and brushed back her long, tangled hair with one arm, then tucked her feet up under her, pulled the computer into her lap, and popped it open. She clicked on a few things.

"Oui. It came." Her thickly accented voice sounded strange in her own ears. She had to shove back the personality of the psyche who spoke with it.

"Good," the woman on the other end responded. "The employer sent special instructions you are to read. The first payment has been transferred into your account. You'll have an allowance for working expenses. The balance will be paid on delivery."

Chere frowned intently, skimming through the details. "Mais oui," she replied absently. Her eyes halted on a requirement. They'd hired two of them. She would have a partner.

She bit back a swear.

An uneasy shadow of a personality flitted through her. _Don't like that, chere. He knows me._ It had been a while since she had felt or heard him in her head. At least, at _his_ volition.

A light pause on the phone. "There will be interference."

Chere snapped back to the conversation and pulled out an amused hum. "Vraiment?" _Really?_ "Eight jobs open, what else should I expect?"

"Will that be all?"

It was quite enough for Chere and she exchanged pleasantries then snapped the phone shut. The personalities flinched away from the fierceness of her accompanying mental gesture, and she leaned back her head on the couch. She could just make out the door to the bedroom with its two beds in her peripheral vision.

"Remy!" she called. "It came!"

* * *

The exact location of the headquarters of Black Air were enshrouded in mystery, as was everything about the powerful organization. Britain's finest had gone into its ranks. The heavyweights with the strongest abilities, the most knowledge, the greatest skills.

The least personality.

Michelle Scicluna could never figure out anymore what had attracted her so strongly to this snarling, off-putting man sitting before her, smoking away, feet up on his desk.

Peter Wisdom.

"How is your project coming?" she asked, tapping her fingers against the desk.

His brown eyes hardened. "We'll find him," he said curtly, blowing smoke in her face.

When things soured between them, it hadn't been one-sided.

"Of course." She didn't let up the tapping and won another frown. "Perhaps, you can look into the attempted security breach on our firewall."

He coughed and set down the cigarette. "Excuse me?"

Michelle straightened. "Someone's trying to break in the database. I want to know who. And why."

* * *

"As _La Femme Fatale_ of the Thieves Guild, there are certain things you need to know. First of all, the heirarchy. The Patriarch is known as the Guildmaster. His wife is Guildmistress. Unless the Guildmistress is Matriarch. Then she's in charge. The heirs are princes and princesses, of course."

"Mais oui."

"_Listen_, Chere. This is important. Officially, I sponsored you into the Guild four years ago and you've had minimal contact since. You owe your sponsor loyalty as long as the Guild branch recognizes him. Hellfire knows this is a breach contract. My own winning the bid for me."

"A common technique..."

"Not common. Merely recognized."

"I've a partner."

"Which is why I'm training you! Now _listen_."

"I'm listening."

* * *

Pierre Bisson and Jacques Renoir sat in the large, comfortable office of the Guildmaster of Montreal. There was much to discuss between the Council member and his Guildmaster.

"Why do you suppose they are here?" Renoir asked, tapping _Fatale_'s file against his knee.

Bisson frowned, folding his hands together and gazing at the Monet on the wall. "I do not know, mon ami. And it worries me. The Tithe Collector has never brought our patron with her before." He returned his piercing gaze to Renoir. "And our new Thief. _Fatale_?"

"We are prepared." Renoir handed over the file. "I forgot how easy things are working with Gambit."

"Oui." Bisson waved off the words. "He is a Master. Don't forget it."

Bisson had been Guildmaster for only five years. His hair was still dark, his face still young. But as the only Master Thief in Montreal, he'd been handed the position on a silver platter. It bothered him yet that he could not contact Jean-Luc LeBeau and tell him what his son was planning. Or anything really. That warrant of Exile silenced the Guild's lips effectively.

He tossed the file on his desk. "And our guests? What of them? Have you learned anything?"

Renoir sighed and coursed his fingers through thick brown hair. "Non. They are femmes, one young, one very young. That is all I know."

"Well, find out more." Bisson turned away and studied the painting again. "I don't like this, Renoir. Our patron has never asked for people before." He glanced toward the file. "And this..." He tapped the documents with one finger. "This must be ended. Immediately."

Renior nodded and stood. "Will that be all, Guildmaster?"

"Oui, Renoir. It will."

* * *

"Now, the Guilds have patrons. In New Orleans, it's the Benefactress."

"In Montreal?"

"LeBeau."

"Like your name?"

"_Just_ LeBeau. Use the name with care."

* * *

"Bring them here, Tessa."

Tessa turned toward her mentor, gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and silently slipped across the library and out of the door. She strode easily into the twisting labyrinth of the headquarters of the Montreal Thieves Guild. She did not often show her face here in her capacity as liaison between her mentor and the rest of the Branch, so the Thieves had been somewhat surprised when not only she, but her mentor also, arrived and took possession of a suite of rooms on both the upper levels and the underground portion of the Guild complex.

Tessa LeBeau quietly opened a door that led to a long, twisting set of stairs winding down and down into the maze. She stepped quickly and lightly down them. She followed the hallways lit by torches, passed the guarded Thieves serving sentry duty. Their eyes distrusted her.

Why was she here?

She ignored them on her way to retrieve her guests, only stopping when she reached the heavy door into the X-Men's quarters. Tessa did not knock. She quickly broke through the security measures on the door and opened it to reveal a fidgeting Asian teenager, trying vainly to read a book on the couch, and the narrow-eyed dangerous glare of a full-grown woman assassin, whose mind pulsed with telepathic energy.

Having been trained over years in many times by some of the most powerful telepaths in the world, to say nothing of the most untraceable mutant alive, Tessa felt no threat from psionics. She could turn their gift on themselves or vanish completely from their realm of influence. Only one telepath had ever been strong enough to fight her.

She shook her head of memories from her girlhood and gestured toward the pair, applying her French accent once more. "You will come with me."

Psylocke tossed her head. "Why should I?"

"Because," Tessa replied equably, "you don't want _him_ to come _here_."

Psylocke frowned, but gestured to Jubilee. "She stays."

"Non." Tessa curled her lips into a cold smile. "She is needed."

"She stays."

Tessa allowed Psylocke to feel the mental power feathering the edges of hers. The assassin stiffened. LeBeau had taught Tessa early to never let another know your real strength. Psylocke believed her to be as strong as she herself, not knowing it was the assassin's own power that had fought her and brought her down. She believed it was Tessa's.

"She is needed," Tessa repeated.

Jubilee set the book down calmly and put her hand in Pyslocke's, ending the argument. "I'll be fine," she reassured the older woman.

Psylocke's eyes tightened as if she felt pain. She nodded.

Tessa opened the door wide and waited for them to precede her. They stood hesitantly just outside under the hostile watch of the sentries as Tessa replaced the security on the door.

She straightened. "Come."

* * *

"Under the Guildmaster are the Council members. Consider them like a Senate. They support him, advise him, obey him."

"But?"

"French, Chere. Mais they can vote over him if they're unanimous."

"On anything?"

"Non. Mais the exceptions aren't worth noting. Each Council member belongs to a Clan."

* * *

The information on one named Remy LeBeau was as thorough as it was shocking. Logan felt for his beer and tossed it back before rereading the sheet regarding his marriage arrangement to an Assassin. This guy had certainly been screwed over a few times and Logan was surprised that he continued to work with the Guild at all.

But family was family.

Logan flattened his mouth into a grim line and flipped to the next sheet.

He set down his beer. He set down the sheet. He braced both palms on the table and considered the words in front of him.

The details handed to him from the inside combined with Hudson's snippets of information were beginning to fill in quite a picture. Not a pretty one.

The kid had been abandoned at a hospital. _Le Diable Blanc_. Demon child. Even then, his eyes had earned him a place in the newspaper. Then he had vanished. A thin, nearly unreadable slip of paper noted the retrieval from a child-enslaving Antiquary. He was then forcibly placed by the Thieves Guild with one, Fagan, a street thief they allowed to raise children to their ways. Jean-Luc hadn't adopted Remy until he was eleven years old.

Thirteen. Mutation manifested. Explosively. He'd gone through rigorous training that Logan could guarantee left the man Remy now was with nearly perfect control.

Fourteen. Betrothed to Bella Donna Boudreaux, daughter of Marius Boudreaux, Patriarch of the New Orleans Assassins Guild. As prophesied _before_ the Thieves Guild had even adopted him.

Fifteen. A report on how well he handled shepherding another Thief through his Tilling. The young Thief whose rite of passage it was had died, though the remarks on the report said bluntly that Remy had done all as he should have.

He'd promptly taken the codename Gambit.

At sixteen, he was allowed into Fed jobs under the name of _Le Diable Blanc_ with strict silence from the Guild regarding all other names.

Sixteen. Medical report. Sitting in front of Logan's drink. Secondary mutation. Omega level. Treatment: brain surgery.

Logan picked up his eighth beer with one hand. Memories stirred and he considered the helicopter.

_"He's wanted all right."_

Weapon X.

* * *

Peter waited until Scicluna was safely away before feverishly hunting through his defensive software, trying to find the attempted hacker. He paused and stared at the screen. Make that hacker.

Whoever it was had managed to squirrel their way into the most intensely guarded computer system in all of Great Britain.

He picked up his cigarette again and cradled in between his fingers as he smoked. He used the other hand to navigate through his computer, laughing when he found the hacker's IP address. His.

Peter Wisdom, Black Air agent, wasn't about to let up without a fight. He began typing away, hacking away at the location of the hacker.

The browsing slowed. Then increased at a furious rate.

Whoever it was knew they'd been spotted. Soon, they'd know a whole lot more than that.

* * *

"Each Clan is made up of related families and their adopted trainees."

"Like you were adopted into the LeBeau Clan."

"You know that."

"Your psyche. The memories... Sometimes they come out. Mostly, you're kinda quiet."

"French, Chere!"

"D'accord."

"C'est mieux. You will be reporting to the Renoir Clan, in the family of Jacques Renoir. You answer to them. You get paid anything for a job as _Fatale_, you pay your tithes to the Guild. A portion of those tithes go to the patron."

"Pourquoi?"

"Because that's how it works. The patrons give Guilds protection and other...gifts. The Guilds pay tithes."

* * *

Jubilee carefully noted everything as they walked down the stone corridors. Men dressed all in black stood silent and still as statues on either side of many doors like hers and Betsy's. Every so often a set of chiseled steps would suddenly wind upward in a tight spiral away from the hallway. Once another hallway crossed theirs.

She noticed everything.

The musty smell of the ancient building. The complete cleanliness of the fixtures, mostly torches, but some real, honest to goodness, light fixtures, completely free of dust and cobwebs. The way their own feet echoed upon hitting the floor while the people they passed and the feet of the woman made no sound whatsoever.

Jubilee noticed with the same careful eye of the mall rat she used to be, eyeing up who would pay for her dinner before bringing on the entertainment. She noted the rich fabric those black clothes were made of, the gloved hands, and the lack of thickness in their pockets. These people had money and confidence in spades.

They eyed the woman, LeBeau, with distrust.

That could be helpful.

LeBeau led them up a set of stairs that went up and up and up. Jubilee counted off the eighty-four steps and gave LeBeau's back an extremely complaining glare by the end. Her feet and legs were killing her!

"You guys ever consider elevators?" she demanded.

LeBeau turned around with a small laugh on her mouth beneath the red shades shielding her eyes. "Oui. I think we did at some time. Whether those were implemented..." LeBeau gave a helpless shrug. Her expression turned shrewd as one hand rose to her hip and she cocked her head slightly at Jubilee.

Betsy stepped partly in front of the younger girl, but Jubilee wanted to know what LeBeau would say and stuck her head out.

"Well?" Jubilee asked.

"He said you would ask." LeBeau shrugged. "He also said you'd make a good Thief. But I'll try not to corrupt you." The smile was back as LeBeau turned again and continued leading them.

Now windows appeared at intervals and Jubilee could see they were in a city at the outskirts. Promising. She grinned.

"And who is _he_?" Jubilee asked, despite the tightening of Betsy's grip on her shoulder.

"You will see." The woman clipped her reply.

Jubilee sighed loudly and scuffed her shoes along the floor. If everyone wanted to treat her like a kid, these guys could too. It would be better than being treated as a threat.

She stole a glance at Betsy, staring ahead with a serious look that meant business.

Good cop, bad cop.

"This way." LeBeau gestured at a set of double doors and pulled one side open, standing so they could enter first.

Betsy gripped Jubilee harder. Jubilee set her teeth in a smile to hide the grimace and walked in beside the former assassin. It was a library, full of ceiling to floor shelves and _books_. The room was nearly as large as Xavier's study and seemed to house far more books than his.

"Whoa!"

Jubilee took in the rich wooden floor with real Persian rugs scattered across it, the velvety couches with end tables crowded with books, the smaller shelves that came out from the walls with even more books in little islands, the fireplace, the massive desk, the man... She stared at him.

Grey hair fell messily but nicely away from his face to his shoulders. He wore something akin to rags, but very expensive rags she noted. More like a rich brown cloth that had never been fully made into the garment he wore it as. His chest showed through the wrap-around front and it was far more toned than an old man's ought to be, and his face was younger than she would have thought too, handsome, sharp and angular, with the keenest, most alive and playful set of eyes she'd ever seen. Instead of white though, his had black. And the irises burned a brilliant red.

* * *

"The Tithe Collector for the Benefactress was a man. LeBeau's is a woman. She calls herself the same."

"LeBeau?"

"Oui. As for your partner..."

* * *

"Coward!" Shiro Yoshida snarled at his cousin, Harada.

The Silver Samurai made a move as if to strike him, but arrested the motion, lowered his arm slowly. "You do not know of what you speak. We must protect our own," he said. Reproof.

"From Remy? A Thief?" The young Yakuza pulled back from Harada and turned to stare out the window of the high-rise hotel room. They would be returning to Japan in the morning. Shiro had won a contract. On his friend.

His cousin laid a hand on Shiro's shoulder. "If our sources are true, this mutant could be the greatest threat we will ever face."

Shiro whirled, staring in disbelief. "Remy?"

"Not what he is now, my cousin. But what he will become." The Samurai dropped his hand from Shiro's shoulder. "You have heard of Fujikawa?"

Shiro cocked a brow. "And who has not?"

"Witness is reported to have red on black eyes also and a pink aura about him when he sits in power," Harada told him.

Shiro lowered his gaze, troubled. "We must protect our own," he intoned.

"Yes."

* * *

"You know about the Yakuza?"

"I've worked with Sunfire before, chèrie. So, oui, I know about the Yakuza. The point, Chere, is do you? You'll be in close contact with him."

"Non. It's Wolverine. He married one."

"You don't say. Your papa marries a Japanese crime maiden."

"Princess more. It's fuzzy."

"You know enough. I met Sunfire on a job. American Feds. He knows my face, my eyes, my skills, my cards, my accent. Not much of my history. Not even Bella Donna. Be careful what you say around him, Chere. My history is yours. If the Guild knows it, so do you, d'accord?"

"D'accord."

* * *

Bella Donna Boudreaux returned quietly to the ancient, beautiful stone edifice that housed the New Orleans Assassins Guild. She had retrieved what she wanted, a contract, and the information that went with it. She wished she could retrieve the information on all eight jobs that had clearly been played and certainly had information that at least one government had called in the mercenaries.

None of it was good.

Remarkably, the rules of the Guild that had been in place for hundreds of years and forced the Guild to honor all contracts taken in such a fashion were the same rules that allowed her to take a contract on family—and as her intended, no matter how wrong that had all gone down, Remy was family—in order to protect them rather than harm them.

She sighed and pushed open the heavy door to her office with one hand and moved to settle in her large chair behind the desk. Bella Donna had insisted on the office of a Master Assassin as that was exactly what she was.

She leaned back her head and considered her fiancé.

Remy LeBeau was definitely the most handsome man she'd ever known. He had toned, hardened muscles honed in the art of survival, never excessive or superfluous. The lines of scars running up his arms and decorating various places on his torso leant him a dangerous air she had always appreciated. It was an important part of an outsider who would marry an Assassin. His face was handsome, angular, sharp, usually sporting that careless smirk that made her forget what she really wanted and prefer his desires. His eyes were the red on black of a devil, his attitude about as innocent.

Maybe she had liked the devil.

She had. She had even loved him. She stared at the laptop waiting for her on the desk. The packet would be there, waiting to tell her how to end his life. What had gone so terribly wrong?

When she _had_.

* * *

"You know your weapons?"

"Oui."

"How to break and enter without leaving tracks?"

"I can draw you up for the thieving. Most of the knowledge is just...there."

"Without fail? You can't mess this up, Chere."

"I know what I'm doing, Remy. Is there something else I need to know about the Guilds?"

"Some."

* * *

The man studied Jubilee intently, a smirk on his face. "You're younger than I remembered, petite."

Jubilee kept her look blasé. "Oh?"

"Oui. Been a long time." He nodded toward Betsy. "And I can see things have already changed."

* * *

"There are five branches in North America: New Orleans, New York, Chicago, Montreal, and Los Angeles. There are twenty-three branches altogether. I made your father Paris Guild. Montreal agreed to it."

"D'accord."

"Your Guildmaster is Pierre Bisson. You owe him fealty, but you've only met him a handful of times. There's a sheet in there for you from Renoir. Should include the details you'll need. Any questions?"

* * *

Kitty typed away furiously, quickly entering, noting, storing the data to her screen capture management program, the fastest, safest way for her to keep a handle on it without leaving a trace.

Whoever was onto her was good. They had her tracked to America. To New York.

She saved one last capture and pulled the plug.

* * *

_He'd been brought out of his hiding place in her subconscious. That internal _her_ constantly on guard had surprising control of the psyches when she needed something. Right now, she needed to be a Thief._

_It was frustrating to say the least. He'd been close, so close he could almost taste the thrill of a successful pinch. He had found the wall erected in her mind, the solid blocks relegating her proper memories to mere unsearchable archives._

_He'd searched anyway._

_Her name. This close. Just a moment's breath away before she had ruthlessly dragged him out and up and he nearly filled her and it was a rush even stronger than the pinch. She needed his help with gambling, something he was eminently qualified to assist._

_Now, she wanted him to _stick_ around and be her expert Thief. If it weren't for those tantalizing moments when their minds melded, their personalities blended together, he would complain strenuously about the disruption to his work._

_He wasn't really complaining._

* * *

"Does your pere know we're doing this?"

"He's not even allowed to ask. Not me. Not the other Guilds."

"Remy?"

"Oui."

"Will... With Sunfire and all, does it mean... I mean... Oh!"

"What, Chere? Just say it."

"Will I still be with you? For now."

"Oui, ma Chere. For now."

"Pour le moment."

* * *

Chere said the words softly to herself, in French. _For now_.


	11. Les Flammes des Ténèbres

A/N: I could have done more than just the couple, but they filled a nice sized word count.

Huge thanks to **abthetis** for the title! Thanks to my beta **PlonkeronDaLoose**!

* * *

**lunamirrior** (Great minds think alike. I got your review halfway through the first of several slow down and catch up chapters. I wanted some more of that up close and personal stuff, now that I'd finally gotten through that four chapter long game. Never writing one of those again! LOL Thanks for all the compliments. As to Jean-Luc...hmm...Never thought of that. I'll have to keep it in mind. And believe me, Jubilee will be a huge character.), **ChamberlinofMusic** (Much work. Sweating buckets that last chapter. LOL Glad to feel appreciated. Much progression for Rogue and Remy on all three fronts next few chapters, saving Remy, finding Rogue, and forwarding the relationship. :smiles coyly: Jubilee and Betsy are about to find themselves in WAY deep, but I make no promises on who gets out unscathed. If anyone does. Thanks for the comments on Peter/Kitty. It seems I jump around quite a bit on the Kitty pairing, but this was just WAY too much fun to resist. :grins: Intend to have much fun with everyone here. Probably too much. :shrugs: Which is fine by me.),

**HeavenlyAngel** (Thanks! Helps that the characters are just so good!), **starlight2twilight** (You're the best, S2T. I swear, you're to blame for how this story keeps taking over my head. And I'm glad the Guild stuff worked. I needed it and it was a pain getting it in there. And I like Bella Donna. I hate saying it, but she's a torn, wonderful Cajun character like another I know, both of whom had lives nearly ruined by the Guilds they love and would kill or die for. A bit tragic. But I just can't hate her. Yes, it's the Witness. And certain things are different than he remembers, but I don't intend to tell you what just yet. More Romy. Enjoy.),

**Green Peridot** (I love the Witness too. He can be horrible, but I have my own theories on that. Those won't be thoroughly explored though until I work on _Broken Time_, the major inspiration for this fic. This one is sort of a smaller version of that—except that it quickly outgrew itself. My stories tend to do that. :sighs:), **ChildofIluvatar** (Ah, a fellow Romy lover. We're in good company. And the psyches are perhaps the most challenging part. Glad to see they're working.), **Roguechere, RogueNya, and coup fatal** (Way too much going on, but keep reading. The next few chapters should help. Any questions, just let 'em rip.), **lilmizz3vil** (love you!)

Thanks all!

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Eleven:** _**Les Flammes des Ténèbres**_

_"The Darkening Flames"_

- Looks to me like Rogue's up to no good...but hey, I like that in a girl. -

_Gambit to Rogue, X-Men Evolution, _"Dark Horizons, Part I"

* * *

Chere wound her arms tighter around Remy's waist and pressed her cheek into the warmth of his body through the leather duster as he restarted the motorcycle at a green light. Her eyes drifted shut and she gave into the lull of the smooth ride, the hum of the engine, the warmth of his back, the scent of gasoline and cigarettes, and the comfortable familiarity of it all.

Night had fallen and they traveled silently through the blackness. She felt each slight movement of Remy's muscles and leaned when he leaned as they turned corners along their journey.

Despite staying for nearly twenty-four hours in the hotel room while playing for the contract, they had basically been on the road for five days now since first receiving word that Remy was wanted. She never thought she could get sick of hotels so fast.

Finally, Remy pulled up to a curb and cut the engine.

Chere didn't open her eyes. "If this is another cheap motel, Remy, I swear I'm gonna hurt you." Her own southern accent was back in full force.

His chuckle rumbled through her. "Non. Not a motel, Chere. And that last room wasn't either."

She cracked her lids ever so slightly, expecting to see a fancy hotel with suites and everything. Instead she found herself in a residential area with expansive lawns and huge houses. She closed her eyes again and tightened her grip.

"You going to let go of me?" Remy asked, amused patience tainting the tone.

"I don't think I can move," she admitted. Every part of her felt drained and exhausted.

She heard him sigh and then he gently peeled her arms off of him and slid off the seat, keeping contact with her waist so she wouldn't fall over. Then he surprised her completely by picking her up.

Chere's eyes flew open. His red eyes glowed in the darkness of the night and she couldn't help but feel his heat and taste his breath as it blew out in the chilled air. "Remy?" she asked, dazed.

He hushed her and moved up the long walk toward double French doors.

She settled her head on his shoulder and allowed her eyes to drift shut again.

* * *

Remy enjoyed the warm feeling of Chere's body as she settled in against him. He held her carefully, like a china doll that would break if he dropped her. Instead of trying to knock or manage to get out a key, he leaned one shoulder against the doorbell and heard the echoing sound in the house.

The pitter patter of little feet, he thought with a grin as he heard a small child come running _loudly_ down the stairs. A bit of...pink?...at the window pane and then the clanking, clicking sound of the deadbolt being pulled open. The door swung wide and a tiny, grinning ten-year-old girl child looked up at him with trusting blue eyes in her beautiful face.

Remy paid little heed to the bones protruding at irregular intervals from Sarah's skin, but he did pay attention to the hair.

"Dieu, petite! I leave you alone for half a minute..." he started in as he entered the house, still carrying Chere's now sleeping form.

Sarah didn't let him finish. "Do you like it?" She preened, showing off her pink hair that was supposed to blonde.

He sighed. "Oui, ma petite. I got to get her upstairs."

Sarah tucked her lip beneath her teeth, but didn't answer, just let him pass and go upstairs to the master suite. Remy figured he'd get the earful later.

He removed Chere's jacket and settled her on the king-sized bed. He carefully pulled off her shoes before reaching for the blanket. She shifted and her shirt rode up a bit. He got a glimpse of lacy pale green underwear peeking above her jeans and nearly groaned. She was going to be the death of him.

Emerald eyes opened and looked at him sleepily. "Remy?"

"Oui, ma chèrie?" He fiddled with a strand of white hair.

That seemed to draw her more alert and she pulled herself up onto her side and leaned on one arm. "This is your house, isn't it?"

"Oui." He failed to see the significance.

"You're not sleeping on the couch again." Her expression was firm, her mind clearly made up.

He chuckled and ran one finger down her rib cage on the side, drawing a hitch in her breath. "You offering to share?"

Something changed in those emerald pools and she became utterly serious. Remy wondered for a moment if they had switched powers and she had gained the ability to hypnotize him as neither looked away. His hands turned restless and he craved a cigarette. Instead he allowed the one hand to trail along her side.

"Chere." He steadied his hand against her.

"Yes?" she whispered. Was he only imagining she was breathless?

"I'm going to try something I think you're going to need to know later, d'accord?" He stared into her uncertain eyes expectantly as he wrapped his charm gently around her, urging her to trust him.

She licked her lips—part of him hated when she did that—but nodded.

He tugged off one glove.

Her gaze immediately fastened on his bare left hand. Remy sat on the very edge of the bed. She started to pull her legs away, but he leaned his right arm on the other side of her, trapping the curve of her hips between it and his body. She shifted in nervousness and he reached out with the charm again to calm her.

"Easy, Chere," he said softly.

Then he carefully reached out his hand to brush her bare arm. She shivered at the light contact, but he felt nothing. He brushed her again, holding the contact ever so slightly longer. He felt vaguely some of his energy drain out at the touch. He paused, waited for his body to rebound.

Not so long as those stolen kisses. Not so draining.

Chere studied him intently, still seeming unsure of him and what he was doing.

He slid his fingers along her wrist, pulled away for an instant, then lightly wrapped her up in his hand, then slid away, skimming, pulling up at intervals. Counting seconds. Feeling the pull. Retreat. Counting seconds. His gaze met hers again and found her eyes half shut. He reached out, felt her as he touched. She liked it. Counting seconds of touch. Counting the seconds of retreat. She licked her lips again.

He wanted more.

He was feeling lightheaded and drew away to rest his palms on his knees and catch his breath.

Chere's eyes closed and her head tilted back. Remy watched her. She was beautiful.

"I didn't know it hurt you," she murmured so he could barely hear her.

It was too much.

"Chere..."

She opened her eyes and he could see the pain in them.

"Non," he said abruptly, roughly. He wanted to stop that look in her eyes. He reached for her, caught his hand against her.

Confusion chased away the pain in her eyes, and she sat up. "I don't—"

He kissed her.

She tasted sweet and spicy and he had to force himself to pull away in the seconds he had. He drew away for only a tiny fraction, not enough to let her speak, then kissed her again.

* * *

He was warm, feverishly warm. His emotions poured over everything else more intense than the thoughts or memories or even powers. Chere gasped when he pulled away, reeling from the caring, protectiveness and desire that she felt. And then he kissed her jaw, then her neck, then her covered shoulder. Butterfly kisses. Brief kisses. No less burning for all that.

He kissed her down her arms, and she was surprised at how little she was absorbing until she realized he was measuring her mutation as fully as her internal self monitored the duration required for processing. She shuddered beneath his touch.

"Remy..." she whispered.

Red and black came up to meet her gaze. He kissed her mouth again, briefly, ever so briefly, but stayed away as briefly before kissing her again.

She wanted to touch him, really touch him. Instead, she slid her arms around his broad shoulders, dug her fingers into his long hair, tangling the auburn strands about them. It felt good and right as she pressed against his warmth and he continued kissing her across her face and neck in those taunting, tiny butterfly kisses.

She wanted more.

Her cell phone rang, jarring sharply, and she pulled away rapidly, her breath sounding harsh in her own ears. She realized he was breathing hard as well.

In fact, he looked drained as he withdrew and leaned hard against the bed.

"Dieu, Chere."

She stared at him. Then remembering the phone, she snatched it up and flipped it open. "Fatale." She managed to shift successfully into her French accent.

"La Femme Fatale," a somewhat harsh masculine voice said.

Chere didn't know if it was a question or a statement. She chose to remain silent.

"Sunfire," the word came out abruptly.

A tiny smile slipped onto her mouth as she felt some unremembered part of her rise up. A wary, liquid shadow in the back of her mind stayed at the ready.

"I was wondering when you would call."

* * *

Remy watched as Chere went fully into her role.

Dangerous.

Addictive.

He didn't think he could stand without staggering, but he knew if given the opportunity, he would take it again. His eyes darkened on her, remembering the flavor of her, all sweetness and fire.

His thoughts skittered toward Wolverine before fastening firmly, possessively on Chere.

For the first time, Remy realized he didn't want her to be found.

* * *

A/N: Please go read and review coup fatal's wonderful fic _I Volunteered_, if you haven't already_. _A multi-POV story that reveals the truth behind Gambit's actions as a Horseman of Death. Also want to recommend AshmandaLC's _Unstoppable_, and for some non Evoverse, RavenDove84's _Homework._


	12. Les Immortels

**This chapter heavily edited.**

A/N: Okay, so this chapter may not be quite like what I thought it would be last chapter. Sorry about that. This chapter comes to the heart of one of the two main premises behind this fic: Rogue loses her memory and a wager is made on Remy LeBeau. To find out who made the initial wager that put this fic and all that has come before rolling into action, keep reading, por favor! (I know, I should use French in honor of Remy, but I really am far more comfortable with Español. :shrugs:

On writing, please visit my profile if you get a chance and vote in the poll. I'm trying to help myself focus better with all the fics on the burner, but I'm all for readers choice.

On reading, I have recently discovered Spikey44, a Remy writer that's as good as Valerie J, no joke. (a trifle graphic) I highly recommend _The King of Secrets _and even more so, _The Devil's Own_. Amazing stuff.

Thanks to **abthetis** for the title. Thank you **PlonkerOnDaLoose** for the beta. Thanks to all my lovely readers below.

* * *

**Ludi** (Can I simply say I love you? You're one of the best Romy writers I've read and you love _my_ story. :blushes: You're the best, the best, the best. :virtual hugs: Bishop's gotta show up somewhere, but I haven't decided where yet and in what time. Shard will be making an appearance, however, very soon. I found pretty quickly that the cast would have to be large to support my original premise without cannibalizing the characters already used in the movie.), **SilverWolf77** (I'm glad you like it. Tickles me pink. I agree with Remy too. :winks:), **ILoveAnime89** (This soon enough?), **kvh502** (More has arrived! And thanks for the sweetness.), **Green Peridot** (Thank you for being sweet enough to come over and review. I'm glad for the reassurance on this chapter. It got a surprisingly low response rate, VERY low at first, so I was a good bit unsure about it. And exploring that bond is the main reason I started this fic in the first place.),

**coup fatal** (Thanks, sweetie! I love getting your reviews and making you happy. And surprisingly, there were a couple of new things last chapter that will be pretty important later. I don't do much in the way of throw-away details in this story. It's all groundwork. And I really am loving _Homework;_ now we just need more.), **RogueNya** (Thanks mucha, sugah! I love Remy and his possessiveness. Sorry no Romy this chapter, but I ran out of space.), **HeavenlyAngel** (:virtual hugs: You sure know the words to an author's heart! I'm keeping updating.), **Wanda W** (I love that. Lethally sweet. He really hasn't entirely given up taking care of her, has he? He claims he has, but I'm not quite seeing it.), **lady555** (Thank you! Here it is!), **forbidenjutsu** (Thanks much!), **Tearlit** (Sexy is good. LOL), **Dahlia Faith Black **(Well, start to anyway. Sunfire and Rogue's interaction will get much more intense. As for when Rogue remembers...sorry. Not until very long time away.),

**ChamberlinofMusic** (Remy really is in a predicament. He's _promised_ Chere he'll help her find Logan, but he really, _really_ doesn't want to anymore. I think he's a little torn, but then I get the fun of playing that out in the next few chapters, not this one though. And the only thing keeping him from just going ahead and breaking said promise is that she wasn't sure if he was her father. If Logan hadn't been associated with father, there's no way Remy would be returning her to a significant male. LOL Ah! The personal life of Remy vs. professional. He's got Sarah hidden away where he's clearly very affectionate and allows her to be queen of the house, and then outside he's the toughest guy to deal with in his line of work. Definitely, a juxtaposition. But that's what I love about him. He does it all. And as for the Romy aspect...Well, keep reading. It gets complicated.), **Laceylou76 **(Cell phones really do suck, even if they saved me from watching them go WAY too far. LOL), **starlight2twilight** (Than you much. More Marrow soon, and Rogue will be kicking butt in five or so more chapters—I think.)

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Twelve:** **_Les Immortels_**

_"The Immortals"_

- Ah, a man who quotes the classics is a man after my own heart. -  
- You've read the classics? -  
- Nope, just like to hear 'em quoted. -  
- LeBeau, you are perhaps the strangest man I have ever met. -

_Gambit and Bishop, Gambit & Bishop LS 2_

* * *

Jubilee stared into the oddly glowing eyes of the old man and repressed a shiver. All his playful amusement could not hide the dangerous hardness of his face. She had the distinct impression that she was looking at a man that could and _would_ do anything to get what he wanted.

She could hear the two women behind her coming forward. Betsy stopped next to Jubilee and placed one hand protectively on her shoulder. LeBeau continued on by, gliding around the man's desk and leaning over to whisper something in his ear. He smirked, then waved her aside.

Jubilee pulled out a strip of bubble gum. "You mind?"

"Non. Not at all, petite," he said with a chuckle and leaned back in his chair, still studying her.

She popped in the gum and began chewing, letting the strawberry flavor settle across her tongue, calm her as she worked it around her mouth.

Betsy waved her free hand. "Enough of this. What do you want?" she demanded. Her voice was hard.

LeBeau leaned against the wall with one hip, her gun jutting out on the other in its holster. She still wore those red sunglasses that hid her eyes.

The man's amusement did not lessen, until the burning of his crimson eyes moved from Betsy to fixate on Jubilee, deliberately excluding the assassin. "I have a proposition for you, petite." He tilted his head slightly, questioning, daring.

Jubilee glanced up at Betsy, but the nails digging into her shoulder was quite enough to know that Betsy was bothered by this. Strawberry melted along her mouth. She paused chewing and very slowly, purposefully blew out into a large pink bubble. She popped it and continued chewing, eyes narrowed at the old man and his dancing red and black eyes.

Devil eyes, she decided.

Betsy prodded her shoulder.

"Why me?" Jubilee asked and cracked her gum.

Maybe she would only tick him off, but she had no intention of letting him get the better of her in this argument. He wouldn't talk to Betsy. That much was clear. It was up to her.

He appraised her sharply. "Why not you?" Good humor warmed his rich, heavy accent.

It didn't sound quite the way Jubilee had heard French pronounced before. She pondered that, still chewing on her gum. She tasted a question in her mind and decided it probably wouldn't gain a real or useful answer, so opted for a safer one.

"Why not _you?_"

He sighed and rubbed his hands along the edge of his desk, drawing her gaze. "Still just as suspicious, aren't you, petite? Never knew you to put on a poker face before though." The corner of his mouth tugged upward, but he flattened it into a line. "I am LeBeau. This," he gestured at his companion, "is Tessa. She requires assistance with an assignment I have given her that I am unable to provide in this time."

The black-haired woman remained silent under Jubilee and Betsy's scrutiny.

"You _are_ able to provide it."

"Why her? Why not me?" Betsy demanded. "And what do we care about your assignment?"

His eyes sparked with...something, and he smiled again broadly. "You don't have the necessary qualifications, chère, fine specimen though you are."

LeBeau stood, coming around the desk to approach them. He was tall, lean, still strong despite his age. Jubilee backed automatically into Betsy, who took another step forward.

"What were you doing at the crash site if you have no interest in my assignment? You were looking for someone, non? You want to find them."

His eyes dared either of them to disagree.

"Let's hear this proposition," Betsy replied coolly.

He raised his hands as if in innocence. "That's all I ask."

* * *

Jubilee listened carefully to what LeBeau was saying and blanched when he got to the word 'sacrifice.' "You're going to kill him?" she demanded, shoving her gum to one side of her mouth.

LeBeau turned his red eyes from the fire to Jubilee's face. Betsy and Tessa had left the room after the initial words were exchanged. Jubilee was curled up in one of the fat reading chairs, which she had pulled up towards the old man's desk.

"Non," he said softly. "That's what New Sun wants to do. Hire assassins en masse and make sure he dies." His face tightened and he seemed far away from the stone library, lost in thought. Or memory.

Jubilee eyed him skeptically. "Sacrifice, huh?" She snapped her bubble gum.

He focused on her again, then smiled in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. An almost crazy gleam came into his eye. "Do you play chess, petite?"

Both eyebrows came up. "I'd think you were more the cards type."

He shrugged. "I play what I'm dealt, but more importantly, I deal. Chess is helpful when thinking strategy." He leaned back casually, taking her in intently. "They call him Gambit."

Chess. Gambit. Jubilee racked her brains for any correlation or significance. "Uh...so?"

"A gambit is material sacrificed for a greater return in the overall game strategy," he explained. "He is my gambit."

"And New Sun wants him dead?"

"Oui, petite." LeBeau turned back to the fire, staring into the glowing flames with eyes as fiery and red as they were. "He wants every version of him dead in every timeline."

She curled herself up a little tighter and chewed more vigorously on the gum. "What do you mean, 'version'?"

LeBeau laughed, a dry, amused cackling sound and he returned his gaze to her yet again. "I am New Sun. He is me."

She blinked.

"But we be from different times," he dismissed. "New Sun isn't from _this_ timeline at all."

"You're crazy as a loon," she managed to get out, then eyed him warily again. "How?"

"Kinetic energy," he replied smoothly. "It's all about potential." He gestured at the flames. "Potential energy becomes either energy in the sense that you understand it, or it can become time, travel time. Comprenez?"

"So why in the world are you telling me?" She heard the whole theme of _then I'd have to kill you_ play through her head.

"Because you need to understand the wager." He tapped his fingers on the desk restlessly. LeBeau always seemed to be restless. "Because those making the wager will be coming to meet with me today, and you'll be there. You'll need all the help you can get, petite, to keep them both alive.

"I've raised different ones and placed them where they need to be. Some know why they're there." He shrugged. "Some don't. But you must."

"What you want me to do..." Jubilee whispered, trying not to shudder in a room that was suddenly too hot, too confining as the world shrunk to the space between her and her next breath and the burning embers of his gaze on her. He had told her the part he wished her to play. And she stared at him, beginning to understand just what he meant.

"No. You can't mean it."

Her eyes widened and she stared into his eyes as he laughed his low, dry cackle.

"Oui, petite. I can."

* * *

Betsy Braddock stared menacingly at Tessa's back. The woman was seated at a high-tech computer terminal with multiple screens and seamlessly connected keyboards, one leg crossed over the other and a calm, cool expression beneath her shades.

"Why did you call yourself LeBeau?"

Tessa did not turn. "That is my name. He gave me his surname when I was still young." The words were delivered with dispassionate lack of interest. One fingernail tapped a key but did not press it.

Betsy raised a brow. "You don't look that old."

Silence was her only response.

She hardened her gaze. "Why is she in there?"

Tessa swiveled about in the chair. "Jubilation Lee?" she asked evenly.

Betsy's psychic knife sprung hot and ready to her hand, ready to plunge into her target. Instincts rose to place her in a fighting stance. She would have struck, only able to quell her response by the memory that Jubilee could be hurt. Jubilee wasn't where Betsy could protect her.

"How do you know her name?"

Tessa clucked disapprovingly. "Still so violent, Ms. Braddock."

Betsy narrowed her eyes dangerously. "You violate my mind, take our communicators, hold us hostage and you expect me to trust you?" Anger lit hot in her gut, but her voice was cold.

Tessa's eyebrow flicked upward. "It is better if you do not trust me," she replied.

She turned back to her computer as Betsy stared at her in disbelief.

* * *

Jubilee could almost taste the darkness in the cloaked woman's approach. A slender hand gloved in silk lifted slightly and the two large men flanking her backed away and went out of the door.

LeBeau never glanced up from his book. Long fingers continued to caress the ancient pages, turning them every so often. Jubilee watched him, slightly fascinated. He seemed utterly at ease with the bizarre nature of their situation and yet, something in his eyes made her wonder about who he really was and what his motives were. Something like regret.

The woman tapped her foot. "Always one to keep me waiting, aren't you?"

"Bonjour, Candra." He turned another delicate page.

Candra, if that was her name, made some sound across between a groan and a sigh and threw back the hood on her midnight blue cloak to reveal a rather pretty, ageless kind of face, hard blue eyes, and long, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and to the bottom of where the hood now hung. Her hand stopped on the hilt of a dagger at her waist.

Jubilee kept silent from her perch on the window sill. She felt no need to draw attention to herself in the middle of this "dangerous" meeting of "friends."

"I see you haven't changed, LeBeau," the woman said, a snap in her heavy alto.

He smirked at the words he was reading. "You haven't either, non?"

Candra narrowed her eyes in an icy glare. "You're still under my jurisdiction."

"That so?" LeBeau looked up, snapped the book shut with a quick motion, and set it gently on his desk. He folded his hands together in front of him and Jubilee could see the red in his eyes begin to glow. "You're a _patron_, non?"

"Just because—" But Candra was unable to finish her angry words, for the door opened to admit another.

This woman came alone, also cloaked. Dark forest green that drank in the light swirled at booted heels. Long green gloves like those that Rogue had worn covered the hands. The cowl was pulled down low, casting the face in dark shadow, more so than Candra's had. Jubilee could see the face of Candra when she entered. This face was completely obscured. The hair was tucked securely beneath the hood.

The woman came directly toward them, then abruptly swerved and fingered a book on one of the shelves. She lifted it quickly with deft fingers and flipped it open to a bookmarked page, then traced her hand down the page as if searching for a remembered passage.

Candra sneered.

The woman moved closer to the fire.

"We're not all here," LeBeau said evenly.

Candra whirled on him. "And what right does _he_ have to come? He is not Guild. He is no patron."

"Non," LeBeau agreed.

Jubilee watched the fire dancing in the crimson irises. It brightened, flared, expanded, blending into the black on the edges, dimmed, then brightened again.

"But he's the one that proposed this wager."

"Never could leave a wager, could you, sugar?"

Jubilee almost started and reminded herself to keep still. It was the green-cloaked woman who had spoken, eyes never leaving the page she read. The accent was thickly southern, thicker than even Rogue's had been. For the first time, Jubilee started to feel the tinglings of horror.

LeBeau merely chuckled.

Candra slid one hand up to her hip and pursed red lips while narrowing her eyes. Then she too laughed, a soft unfriendly sound. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" Her eyes danced with cold amusement.

A sharp snap drew all of their attention. The woman had shut her book with a flick of her wrist and was now setting it gently back in its place on the shelf. A tiny bit of long, silky white hair, slightly curling, slid out from under the cowl where Jubilee could see it. The green glove rose and tucked it back out of view.

"You're the one who hasn't changed, Candra." The voice was almost silent, deadly calm, with acid tendrils curling about the edges.

Jubilee suppressed the urge to shiver in the sudden tightness of her nerves.

The hooded figure moved toward the window, stared out, and continued in the same deadly tone. "The Witness is nothing like he was."

"Oh?" Candra flicked an eyebrow upward.

LeBeau said nothing. His crimson eyes were completely unreadable in his sharp, expressionless face. His hands smoothed the edges of his desk. He rubbed his fingers together on one side, then rested them on the desk. He never once broke his gaze from the woman's back.

Jubilee could hear the curve of a smile in the southern drawl when next she spoke. "I should know."

"You'd think," LeBeau flipped back before leaning backward ever so casually in his chair.

The door began to open.

LeBeau looked up, his gaze sharpening. Candra's other hand moved to her hip and she turned to face the door, legs braced, chin held haughtily high. Jubilee sank further back into the unyielding stone, her eyes fixed on the door as worry gnawed in the pit of her stomach. The woman made no motion.

The form that entered the room was enough to make Jubilee feel very real fear. He was a man, if you could call him that, seemingly made of blue fire or energy of some kind. His tall, lean form remained human in shape, if not in composition or expression. The voice that addressed them held an otherworldly quality to it.

"Jacob sends his greetings," he stated.

LeBeau nodded acknowledgement. He tilted his head back ever so slightly, to allow his words to travel towards the woman by the window, dressed in green. "We are all here, Fatale."

Fatale. Jubilee tasted the name and found it deadly.

A slight motion caught her eye and she shifted her focus to her peripheral vision to see Fatale draw a dagger and test the blade against her gloves. The faintest hint of red stained the deep, dark green.

Candra sighed impatiently. "Let's get on with it. I have other matters to attend to than just this."

"Don't we all, Benefactress," Fatale drawled softly, then turned, dagger still naked in her hand. "Immortals generally do."

Jubilee felt queasy and prayed as LeBeau had said that she would not be noticed.

Candra shrugged easily and aimed her sharpened glare at the newcomer. "The wager."

"And what have you to do with it?" he spat angrily. "Witness?"

LeBeau merely chuckled. "She has staked a claim in our quarry, New Sun. You want him dead. I want him alive. These others," he gestured towards the women "have their own wishes and the right to claim them."

New Sun. Witness. Jubilee's eyes darted back and forth as she tried desperately to follow what was being said.

"He is _mine_, from _my_ jurisdiction," Candra said, drawing herself up with a regal air. "I am patron of his Guild."

"You will try to save him?" New Sun asked, his energy flaring brighter for a moment.

Fatale laughed softly, drawing New Sun's attention.

"And what is your part in this?" he demanded.

All eyes sharpened on her. Candra's were hard and resentful, New Sun's suspicious, LeBeau's bright, burning, and interested.

When she did not speak, he prodded. "Fatale?"

"Diable." She wiped the dagger with a soft cloth and sheathed it. "I am a Guild patron. I have reasons for being here and reasons for placing my own wager on the head of Remy Etienne LeBeau." She stood straight, and Jubilee strained to see her face without moving, but could not. "You all have your uses for him, don't you? Have everything figured out. Sending out the hounds of heaven and hell to hunt him down." The cold, faint amusement that colored her tone frightened Jubilee in her corner.

Fatale returned to looking out the window. "Well, so do I."


	13. Pouvoirs Aussi Sombres que les Ténèbres

A/N: Promise answers are coming about the immortals, but all in good time.

Thanks to **abthetis** for the title. Thanks to CaptMacKenzie for the edit. Thank you **PlonkerOnDaLoose** for the beta. Thanks to all my lovely readers below.

* * *

**Dragongirl of the Stars** (You are amazing. And yes, tons and tons and tons of research, still ongoing. I try to weave it all together and nice to know it's working. By the way, LOVE your avatar.), **CaptMacKenzie **(Well, thank you for all the reviews. You really brought up my desire to get writing this story again. And now for a bit of honesty with you... every single character in here so far, except Bisson and Renoir, are canon characters, mostly from comicverse. Lots of hints for the folks that know comics real well. In the comics, Stark/Fujikawa was the Witness's organization. The Witness is an enigmatic character that raised Bishop and his sister Shard. Fatale, however, is my own. And she shall remain a mystery...for now. You're the first person to catch the Tessa thing and actually mention it. Congrats! You're very much on the right track with her and the Witness. The upcoming chapter, "A Deadly Wager," should answer some of the more specific questions. Sinister debuts below.),

**ChamberlinofMusic** (Hopefully, you got a good handful of clues. I've been pouring them in carefully, but only a few people have picked up on most of them and mentioned it. Especially the doubling. I laid a lot of groundwork for this part. More Romy next chapter. I think you'll like it. I have a LOT of ground to cover though, so I took it a little easy. And I'm going to be putting Jubilee through a lot. It's really awful, but I've always had too little of a problem being awful to my characters. If you didn't read the scene with Jubilee and Witness—added _after_ beta—go back and check it out.), **cajunette** (Ooh, you make me happy! I like to keep you on the edge of your seat. As for movieverse Rogue...you really make me happy. This is my favorite way to write her, but it isn't too common out there in movieverse land. Less in other 'verses, but that only makes sense.), **Red Shagging Couch** (Much. :winks:),

**PrincessRhia** (Yep. They are. But the entire New Sun story arc was based on one version of Remy wanting to off ours. I just juggled it up a bit by deciding that the Witness didn't like what New Sun was up to. I mean, the very idea of New Sun and the Witness, two ultimate Remy's with the full spectrum of his powers, going toe to toe... I _had_ to try it. And _Without a Trace _was born.), **Green Peridot** (I'm going to miss you! I'm glad you like Fatale. This is going to be an intense fic to work with, keeping all the characters going the ways I want them to, but she's one of my new favorites. And while Candra did try to kill Remy in the comics, she won't in my story because it's _my_ story. :grins: Hope you enjoy all the rest when you come back to us. Lots of stuff going on.), **Abeytu** (Soon is relative. :apologetic smile: But glad you like the ride.), **AshmandaLC** (Hooked is good! I laid some groundwork for the Witness, but still tried to keep it a surprise. As for how they're all there...it is a well-established fact that Remy _can_ be a time traveler. He did it once. And more updates a'coming! LOL),

**Irual** (Fatale and the Witness...hmm... I think I'll keep you wondering for now, but I've definitely already got ideas on that. And short? These aren't my really short chapters. That would be _All's Fair_, sometimes _Fight and Shadow_, _Dances_...not _Without a Trace_. But I don't usually write gargantuan chapters, though these ones are getting longer and longer... :chewing on cookies:), **cocopucks** (I like the way you put that. :grins shamelessly:), **DreamSprite** (I try.), **RogueNya** (The meeting will continue actually, in three or four more chapters.), **Laceylou76** (Romy is coming back and this is now one of my four priority fics. See profile for more on _that_.), **RogueOnFire** (Tessa is a comics book character, though minus a last name. I suggest uncannyxmen . net, check out character spotlight for Sage. Everything you need to know. Wikipedia's pretty good too. I'm glad you're liking this. I assure you, La Femme Fatale has no problem being there. :grins:), **coup fatal** (Um...you'll understand better in...a few chapters. Sorry.), **Dahlia Faith Black** (The meeting's not over yet!)

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Thirteen:** **_Des Pouvoirs Aussi Sombres que les Ténèbres_**

_"Powers Like Darkness"_

- This would be the part where the nun smacked your hands wit' a ruler for bein' a bad boy. -  
- Or did that only happen to me? -

_Gambit, Gambit #4_

* * *

Doctor Nathaniel Essex was a man used to getting what he wanted. He had the longevity and the patience to wait years if need be for a golden opportunity to swing his way.

His first opportunity to utilize the powerful mutant known as Gambit had come to him almost by surprise. Gambit had come to Essex, showed up on his doorstep, and asked for help controlling his burgeoning biokinetic powers. Naturally, there was a price involved, and Essex exploited it ruthlessly.

He hadn't counted on Gambit having a moral code.

He lost use of the mutant Thief for a time.

For a time, he was content to have it so. Gambit had left him with the team of mercenaries known as the Marauders and with samples of his fascinating genetic code. The operation Essex had performed to reduce Gambit's capabilities had been purely physical, and the waiting would give the mutant's brain time to adapt to the changes, reroute functions, and regrow neural pathways. The time to retrieve Gambit would be when more knowledge could be gleaned from studying him.

Malice had come to Essex a week ago with news that changed his plans for Gambit entirely. Someone had informed the government of Gambit's true potential and the information had spread. If any of the powers that had staked a claim in Gambit succeeded in acquiring him for their own purposes or in killing him to destroy the potential he represented, years of Essex' work and plans would be for nothing.

Essex was a man used to getting what he wanted. In keeping with his new objectives, he had a meeting to prepare for.

"Sabretooth," he said, not pausing in his careful evaluation of Gambit's samples.

The hulking blonde feral stood by the door of his main lab area.

"I want you to empty the cages," Essex said.

The command was matter of fact, a necessity. He did not want his visit with the mercenary, Blindspot, to be interrupted by their whimpering. It was time to replace them anyway.

* * *

Remy nearly tripped over Sarah coming down the stairs. The pint-size ten-year-old stared up at him with narrowed blue eyes and crossed arms, sharp bones extending even further from her skin than normal.

"Who is she?" she demanded, her voice high and harsh.

He had known this was coming, but he had hoped to get a little more settled in before dealing with it. "She's just a friend, mignonne."

Sarah gave him one of her all too knowing looks. "That's what you always say." Her mouth formed a formidable frown.

Remy sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable. He picked her up.

She squirmed away from him, determined not to let him get to her, but he held tight and tickled her until she shrieked with laughter, then tucked her in on his hip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her bones dug into his body in various places, but he had gotten used to the sensation and ignored it.

"You're ma mignonne, you know that, non?" He tipped up her chin to look into her slightly scowling face.

She nodded glumly.

"And all those other girls that ever came home aren't my little princess, are they?" This time, he was a little sterner.

Her scowl deepened. "No." She buried her face into his neck, and he found himself staring at her _pink_ hair.

He butted her head gently and she looked up. "What was Shard thinking, hein?" Remy chuckled and flicked a strand of her hair. "Pink, petite?"

Sarah sat up a little straighter in his arms. "I like it." Then she scowled again. "Why did _she_ have to come here?"

Remy rolled his eyes. "Been missing me, non?"

He moved on around the rambling corners of his large, comfortably but sparsely decorated house and into the living room to dump Sarah unceremoniously on the couch. He proceeded to tickle her until she was breathless. Then he sat down next to her and she clambered into his lap.

"She's not that kind of friend, petite," he began. "She saved my life and I'm helping her find some of her family."

Sarah gave him a dubious look.

He held up his hands in innocence. "C'est vrai."

"Back from the dead so soon?" a woman's voice said dryly.

Remy looked up and grinned at the dark-skinned woman, standing in the open doorway, one hand on her hip, clad in casual clothes, and with her golden hair tied back in a practical ponytail.

"Shard! Did you miss me?"

She shook her head at him and walked over to pluck a highly irate Sarah off of his lap. "Don't cut his trench coat," she admonished. "He doesn't need to get another again."

Sarah huffed. "Fine." She squirmed out of Shard's arms and hurried around the corner, probably to her room to shed some of the excess bones that she had nearly thrown at him earlier in her irritation.

"You done good," Remy told Shard as she settled next to him on the couch. "Keep the house nice too."

She shrugged, trying not to let him know she liked the compliment.

He grinned at her.

"She's a good kid," Shard said, blowing it off.

* * *

Chere found the offhand Japanese curse words and extraneous commentary from Shiro disturbingly easy to understand. He was harsh and clearly more than a little put out having to share the job with her.

"How about you use your sources to start searching," he finally said, "and I'll use mine. We can check in with each other if we get a good lead."

Chere snapped out, "And how do I know that you would actually contact me?"

He just about growled. "_I'm_ the known factor here. No one in our circles has ever heard of you." He tacked on some rather unpleasant phrases in his own language.

She almost lost it there, but she bit her tongue. No need to give away any spare advantages, even if she knew Japanese from Wolverine and a name almost slipped out of her mouth from the past she couldn't remember. She filed away that thought for later reference.

Very, _very_ calmly, she replied, "I have a starting location that was hot within a week's window, as well as a contact to get a hold of."

There was silence for a moment on the other end.

Then finally, "How hot?"

She smirked. "I said he was handsome, didn't I?"

* * *

"Had an update," Remy said casually, then glanced sidelong at Shard.

She looked up sharply. "Oh?" Her tone was all too casual, as if showing interest would lose her the hearing.

It was unnerving sometimes, how much she seemed to know him. Shard had shown up on his doorstep one day, battered and bruised. He hadn't asked a lot of questions at first, just pulled her in and patched her up. Sarah had watched with shadowed, untrusting eyes as he tended her. None of them were too trusting then. They didn't know each other. Remy had just gotten himself out of Sinister's clutches, and Sarah had just watched her people, the Morlocks, be butchered in front of her eyes.

"Oui," Remy said. "A name."

"Do you know yet why you get them?" she asked.

He blew out a long breath and shook his head. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "Wish I did."

Shard looked troubled at that. It bothered him too, but Remy had a few more years than she did to get used to it. From the time he was a teenager, his world would go spinning around him and he'd lose all sense of direction or clarity until something in time finished changing. He'd seen a person in his past disappear from it, experienced chance encounters that he hadn't had, and now knew the name of a mercenary that _never_ gave her name away. The times he had failed to match up the new information in his head with the old, he'd forgotten the information entirely and was unable to determine what was different between the two later. From what he could tell, he forgot the original memory altogether, supplanted by the new.

That was after his brief stint as Sinister's favorite lab experiment.

He shuddered. "Why'd you come find me, Shard? How come I don't remember you?"

She looked startled for a second, but then leaned back a little further into the cushions. "How long you been wanting to ask me that?"

"Only since I started realizing you know me," Remy replied, honestly enough.

It was something he should have realized right away. She'd called him by his last name before he'd ever given it to her. But somehow, he was able to talk himself out of believing Shard was actually somehow from his own future. For a while.

Shard looked uncertain.

"I trust you," he said reassuringly, "or I wouldn't leave Sarah to you."

Shard gave a small smile of acknowledgement. "I knew you in the future, in my time, before I got dumped back here by that anomaly."

A time anomaly. That was her only explanation for how she'd been transported over forty years into the past.

He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

She eyed him warily. "You raised me," she said, almost hesitantly.

It was a strange thought and for a moment, he didn't react, wasn't sure how to. "Oh," he said at last. He didn't manage more than that.

* * *

Tessa quietly surveyed the dinner party Jason Wyndgarde was throwing for the Hellfire Club and it's numerous allies. She had a great deal of work to do tonight for _both_ sides. As Black Queen of the Hellfire Club, it was her duty to mingle among the many guests and determine where things lay for the Club and its investments. One such investment was Gambit, the reckless Cajun Thief who had apparently been hiding Omega-level powers beneath his easygoing façade.

Making the rounds gave Tessa a good view of where things were among the many secret powers that gathered for these New York high society parties. It was no surprise to discover the governments all wanted to get their hands on a more potent weapon than a nuclear warhead, but it did surprise her to discover the barely veiled interest of Japan's elite crime lords, known as the Yakuza, as well as that of Madame Hydra, current head of a mutant terrorist organization, of Courier, a quiet, understated man working for an unknown but powerful employer with eyes and ears seemingly everywhere, and of Black Air representative Michelle Scicluna and her surly, tightlipped companion, Peter Wisdom.

Tessa retreated to the buffet table when she had completed her survey and appraised the room with greater concern than before. Outwardly, her expression was calm and serene.

Regan came up to stand next to her. "I sure hope you know what you're doing, Sage." A hint of irritation flashed in the tone.

The two women were like night and day, White Queen and Black Queen, blonde hair and black hair, fiery threat and cool deadliness. Different loyalties. But despite their differences, they were friends. Regan's father had taken Tessa in and used her, but he used his own daughter just as ruthlessly. Regan was the only one Tessa felt might know the truth about her presence in the old gentleman's club with its power-hungry goals.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Regan hissed in her ear.

Tessa gave her a grim smile. "Do you really want Bogan to get his hands on Gambit?"

"No." Regan shrugged. "But neither do I want my father to get him. It's best to leave this to the interference, Sage. We have no business weighting things within the club."

Tessa glanced around, catching the thoughts, the voices, bouncing around the milling crowd of wealthy socialites, wondering if Regan knew who she was really working for. "Perhaps not," she agreed aloud, almost absently.

Both women knew that would not change Tessa's actions in the least.

* * *

The Native American man wore his hair in a long, tight braid and metal components attached to every part of his uniform. A semi-automatic weapon was slung over his shoulder.

He waited for her.

Blindspot pulled up on her bike to a squat metal building in the Arizona desert near Alamogordo, cut the motor, and pulled off her helmet. She shook loose the black hair falling around her face and appraised the man before her. She nodded in acknowledgement of her colleague.

"Scalphunter."

"Blindspot." He gave her a sharp grin. "He only takes the best, doesn't he?"

Blindspot shrugged but all her internal alarms were ringing at high volume. Scalphunter was a known member of an elite band of brutal, ruthless, and powerful mutant mercenaries. They were effective and bloodthirsty, the best fighters in the trade. She glanced around the desert, then eyed the short, fat little building with distaste. No doubt, the meeting place was below ground, cutting off any escape if things went bad. She got off the motorcycle.

"If your employer has the Marauders," she said offhand, casual, while locking down the vehicle, "then why does he need me?" She lifted her head and raised an eyebrow at him.

"The Marauders have already had a couple of goes at the kid," Scalphunter admitted, following it with a wry laugh. "Sabretooth underestimates him."

"I see," she said. And she did.

It was a warning from one professional to another. One she did not take lightly.

She came to stand in front of him. "Lead on."

* * *

Cecilia Reyes sent out her last patient for the day at 11:00 at night. She pulled off her glasses for a long moment and stared at the wall. It had been a stressful day. So many mutants needed treatment, and so much of the medical establishment refused to treat obvious mutants. Gambit had provided her with a large trust fund to offer services to those mutants, and some baseline humans, in the area that could not afford it anywhere else. But it was long, grueling work, and it had been a very long day.

Finally, she gathered up her clipboard and charts and left the little examination room and into the main area of the apartment. It was dark. Night had fallen and Puck hadn't turned on the lights before leaving. With a weary sigh, Cele crossed over to the kitchen and flicked on the switch.

She started.

A woman stood up from the couch in the shadows of the living room. Her form was encased in a light, close-fitting magenta-hued body armor. Her hair was in a tight, high ponytail. She stepped into the light cast from the fixtures in the kitchen, and Cele could make out the fair hair and coloring, the blood-red lips, the icy blue stare of a cold, calculating professional.

"Bonjour, Doctor Reyes," the woman said in a low alto and a heavy Cajun accent that was only too familiar.

Cele did not show any fear in the face of this woman, knowing she had shielding if it came down to it, but a small niggle of nervous apprehension tingled in her gut. Despite the apparent lack of weaponry, everything about the woman in her living room bespoke someone who had little to no compunction about killing another.

She put on her best doctor neutrality, pushed up her glasses slightly, and answered, "May I help you?"

"Perhaps." The cold blue eyes flicked over her briefly. "I would like to know when you last saw my fiancé."

Cele thought quickly. She had never known anyone in relation to Gambit but those he brought her to treat. The Cajun accent, the shadowy movements, hinting at activities she wanted to know nothing at all about...

"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid," Cele stalled.

"Very well." The regal blonde came forward and helped herself to one of the kitchen chairs. Looking up at Cele, she was no less menacing. "My name is Bella Donna Boudreaux. My fiancé is the Gambit, as you would know him. He is the man that finances this"—she gestured absently at the tiny apartment—"charitable work of yours with his own less than charitable endeavors." Bella Donna tightened her lips into a line and tilted her head slightly, appraising Cele. "When did you last see him?"

"Will you kill me if I tell you?" Cele asked evenly.

Bella Donna laughed wickedly, then gave her a long, sidelong look. "Non. Only if you don't." She pursed her lips, then said, "I think I'd like this work of yours to continue."

Cele approached cautiously and seated herself across from this unwanted guest. Bella Donna twirled a strand of golden hair about her finger.

"And will I have any protection from the others who will no doubt be banging down my door soon wanting the same information?" She wasn't going to do this halfway if she was going to do it at all. Her patients depended on her.

Bella Donna's perfectly manicured eyebrow came up, but then smoothed into a straight line. "It would be a small matter to leave you one of my own assassins."

Cele flinched at the word.

"Would you prefer a man or a woman?" Bella Donna asked. "Gender can make a person less intimidating to you."

"Woman," Cele replied. The last thing she wanted was a man known to kill for a living in her place. "I saw him five days ago in the morning around 10:00."

"Merci." Bella Donna flashed her teeth in a bright smile. "You have been most helpful."

Cele waited until the woman was gone before allowing herself to feel again. What _had_ Gambit gotten himself into?

* * *

"So who's the girl?" Shard asked, a slight twinkle in her eye.

Remy gave her a look.

"She's obviously special if you didn't make her walk," she pointed out, nonplussed.

"Oui," he said dryly.

"So..."

"So, I like her," he admitted. "But she's lost her memory and I'm not about to take advantage."

Shard raised both eyebrows at him and then gave him a real smile. "Imagine that. The player playing fair."

"Shut up," he said without malice. "We're helping each other."

"And would that involve joint sleeping arrangements?" Shard queried with an innocent expression.

Remy thought about that and the conversation, and then the kisses, he'd had upstairs with Chere. A languid smile spread across his face. "We'll see."

"Uh-huh." Shard looked at him knowingly.

* * *

Courier was a woman, a fact that surprised Fontanelle to no end. The dishwater blonde telepath appraised her employer's representative.

Courier's face was hard and almost masculine. The dark gaze cut into hers, scrutinizing carefully. Very professional, this one, and slightly bitter, she would hazard a guess. The dark hair was pulled back well off the ears and face.

"Miss Dayne," Courier stated.

"Fontanelle, please," the telepath returned.

"Very well."

The two women shook hands and settled into their seats at a high-rise restaurant with an entire wall of glass overlooking New York. It was an unusual place to meet in Fontanelle's mind, especially for dinner, but Courier had said over a static-sounding phone connection that she had another appointment and wanted to meet directly after.

They placed their orders and waited for the waitress to take them back.

Courier skipped the pleasantries. "You do know the requirements of this job," she said, more as a statement than a question, but accompanied by an uplifted brow that demanded an answer.

"Of course," Fontanelle replied and sipped on her water. She didn't use the lemon.

"You are not to do the actual wetwork, merely the tracking," Courier said brusquely.

Fontanelle gave the woman a sharp look. "Do I look like I do wetwork?" In her nice suit dress, with her features pinched by years of worry and bitterness, and with her definite lack of muscles or physical prowess, Gloria Dayne, codenamed Fontanelle, was hardly a candidate to be an assassin. "I will go through the dream profile of each person you give to me and locate your employer's missing 'son.' That is all."

Courier smiled then, leaning back in the chair in a decidedly masculine way. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Their entrées were brought and set before them. In the interlude, Fontanelle wondered what it was that bothered her so much about Courier's manner, but she still had not put her finger on it when the waitress left again and Courier pulled out a leather attaché case.

"Now," Courier said. "To the details."

* * *

"You want him dead."

The Silver Samurai, Harada Kenichiro, turned at the dry, crackly voice of an old man. He inclined his head toward the oyabun and master of the Clan Yashida, Lord Shingen. His father.

"I want to protect our people," Harada replied.

Lord Shingen gave no outward response. He crossed the traditionally decorated Japanese room silently to stand in front of the fireplace and gaze upward at the swords crossed over the mantle. "You wish to gain honor," Shingen said.

Harada did not dare to correct him.

Shingen did not once look back towards his illegitimate son. "You will bring us honor, Kenuichio." He used the corrupted form of his name, once an affectionate title from a father that never claimed him.

"Yes, Lord Shingen."

* * *

"You're serving me tea?" Blindspot asked, all amusement as she settled in at the small table. It sat on a balcony overlooking a monstrous lab filled with hideous odors, intense colors, endless lab equipment, operating tables, and beakers in a cavernous underground facility. "Hardly seems appropriate."

Doctor Nathaniel Essex sat down across from her and poured from the ludicrously Victorian teapot.

Blindspot twirled her hair around one finger and studied this man, if he could possibly be called that, who was now her temporary employer. His skin was too tight, hair too slick, manners too stiff. He seemed...inhuman.

"I was wondering, my dear—" he began.

She grimaced at the moniker.

"—if perhaps you yourself were a mutant?" He gave her a ghastly smile and handed her the teacup.

Her hand fell softly to the table and she drummed her fingertips against it. "What an interesting, irrelevant thing for you to be wondering."

The smile vanished. "I prefer to know the skills of my employees."

She quirked an eyebrow and spared a glance toward the menacing figure of Sabretooth over his left shoulder. "I'm sure." Blindspot lifted the teacup to her mouth and sniffed it appreciatively. "Earl Grey."

Only a handful of poisons were odorless, most of them too fatal for him to want to use on his latest contractor. She sipped the tea and set the cup back down on the table.

"I'm sure you can understand," the doctor said lightly, but a faint note of warning was evident in his voice.

"However, I am not one of your minions," she stated bluntly. "I am a contractor with the skills necessary for _this_ job." She gestured toward the hulking feral. "I work alone. That is what is on the contract. You want Gambit. I want your money. _Not_ your micromanagement."

Essex gave her a supremely annoyed look, but she merely thinned her lips and set them into a firm line.

"I will not have you wandering about with no guarantee of a return on my investment," he said testily.

Blindspot stood, shouldering her heavy, black weapon. It had all the appearance of a machine gun, but a rather unique set of capabilities she would simply love to test. She uncocked the safety and stared down at him.

"I catch a tail on me and you will be very certain of whether I can make good on your investment," she said flatly, "as I will mail them to you in pieces."

She turned her back on him and began to walk away.

"You _are_ my employee, I remind you."

She glanced back over her shoulder and raised a brow. "There are other employers, I remind _you_."

Blindspot emerged from the lab into the cold, desert night near Alamogordo to see her guide into the facility leaning on the outer wall and smirking at her.

"He's not an enemy to make, Blindspot," he informed her.

"Noted." Blindspot got on her motorcycle. "Just do your job, Scalphunter."

Scalphunter's hard laugh followed her over the sands.

* * *

A/N: Good, bad, or indifferent, lay it on me. I really _do_ like to edit. If anything is confusing, _please_ let me know. That is my waterloo, and I'll always go back and clarify if it doesn't work the first time.


	14. La Ronde des Sages

A/N: First off, apologies for this taking _forever_ and thank you everyone for your patience on my hiatus and getting back into the round. I never imagined it would be quite like this trying to start back up again. But here goes. :grinning:

Some of the things I said last time in review replies, sadly, no longer apply. It was just too long to keep everything exact, but it's definitely still unfolding in a way I want it to, so hopefully, nobody minds.

Thanks to **abthetis** for the title. Thank you, **PlonkerOnDaLoose** and **Heavenmetal,** for the beta. Thanks to all my lovely readers below.

* * *

**Shadow Ice Maiden** (The large cast happened by accident. See, I was determined to keep characters mostly canon with the movies and not use any extras that weren't canon and that led to...:headbang: LOTS of research. LOL But whatever makes you happy, I'll be happy to continue. Hope you like the new chapter.), **BuGGzErS** (Yeppers! If I discontinue a fic for ANY reason, I will notate it accordingly. Frankly, the muse works in spurts. Everything all at once and then practically nothing at all. :shakes head in disgust:), **Tokyobabe2040** (I LIVE!! Back from the hiatus...I'm glad you're enjoying the story. And actually, when Remy is _fully_ powered [he currently is not in this fic], he can touch Rogue. It goes like this: "My internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out into a perpetual _external_ field—like a _soft guze wrap_ of bioelectricity all 'round me." "And that's why I can touch you." "Right. My kinetic field _dissipates_ the effects of your powers _as_ you're touchin' me." [which is why, no offense, I don't buy the theory that Rogue absorbs all that excess energy when he's fully powered. She _can't_ absorb him at all.] See _Son o' de Guild_ for the fic where I explore that.),

**Ludi** (Have I told you yet I'm just grateful you're enjoying this story? It's like having Jodi Picoult or some bestseller I adore loving my work. :sighs happily: But anyway...I'm having a lot of fun hunting up the different characters necessary to pull everything together. Regan's the one character I think I don't have a good enough grasp on personality wise, and I definitely want to play with Blindspot's character. I never fully read the arc she shows up in, so I'm really using her for my own purposes. :cackles: Mostly, I wanted her powers. I have my own theory why she could affect Rogue but Rogue couldn't affect her and that plays into _how_ I'm going to give Rogue back her memories. Which should have been thoroughly hinted at, but just hinted. So much ground to cover, so little time. :grins: And more Fatale coming. Oh boy is that chapter going to be interesting to write!),

**A****ngelwithDirtyThoughts **(Thank you! Had fun picking Rogue's name and I have to admit I like Marrow much, much. :winks: ), **ChamberlinofMusic** (I like to hear that! I think sometimes I set myself up for waaaaaaay too long of a fic with all the characters, but the premise sort of required it. And Rogue and Remy will be having more interaction, despite all the delays as I move forward my (too) many players. I love the two of them and how complex they are and how many modes they can slide into to play out their own pieces of the puzzle. And I think you'll really enjoy the next chapter with Fatale/Witness. Um...This _is_ an M-rated fic.), **A Rose in the Night** (Intrigue is good! I know it'd be easier if she had her memories, but the whole plot would go kaplewee. So yeah. I'm having fun.), **Randirogue and coup fatal **(Sorry, y'all, you came when the chapter was down. It's back up and a new one to boot. Hopefully, it still lives up to your expectations.),

**CaptMacKenzie** (And thank you, thank you, thank you for helping me figure out what was wrong with the last chapter. I hope it works better now and is understandable. I had a lot of important things I had to establish [mostly who all the players were in the freelance field] and then this chapter is about the X-Men players and then _next_ chapter goes through the governments. I needed to get them all clear on the page. Infinitely keeping them hidden doesn't service anybody, but there's just so _many_ of them. :groans: Methinks I'm weaving an awfully big web. Thanks for the patience and the reviews. I think you're one of the most _helpful_ reviewers I've got.), **starlight2twilight** (Finally! It's up! Are you happy? Please, say you're happy. I can't update on this one again right away because _Whisper_ is languishing, calling to me. Please say you're happy.), **Irual** (You are the sweetest. And this still is near and dear to my heart. And I'm grateful the research is working **and many huge thanks to my betas**. :chowing cookies while pondering other ideas for _Son o' de Guild_ arc: Nope. No other ideas yet. Which is good, considering time. :grins: Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming.)

Thank you everyone!

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Fourteen:** **_La Ronde des Sages_**

_"__The Dance of the Wise_"

- By taking down the leader of an X-Men "Clan"--I will be rewarded with the proper respect due me! -  
- Oh, c'mon, next you gon' bully me for my lunch money! -

_Rax and Gambit, Gambit #22_

* * *

"You're hacking into SHIELD?"

Kitty ignored the loud exclamation behind her and focused on the aromatic scent of fresh-popped popcorn drowning in butter and salt. "Mmm..." She whirled around in her chair and fixed Bobby with the most intimidating glare she could muster. "Hand over the popcorn and no one will get hurt."

Judging from the way he continued to stare slack-jawed at her computer screen, it must not have been that intimidating.

She sighed and reached out to phase the popcorn bowl from his fingers and immediately started munching. "If it bothers you, Bobby,"—she went back to clicking away at the computer screen, typing with the same hand by times, and eating with the other—"then don't watch," she stated practically.

There was no immediate response, and she shrugged, assuming he was still gaping at her. She popped another buttery kernel into her mouth, paused for a second to savor the taste, then narrowed in her focus on the branching tree of data files and archives. She double-clicked on one. A password box appeared in the center of her screen. She did a few cross-references, glanced down her scribbled notes on the back of a grocery store receipt, and typed in a long stream of digits into the box. She hit enter.

An hourglass turned over twice.

The computer beeped.

"I'm in!" she shouted with glee and whirled around in her swivel chair to take a look at Bobby's face. Kitty scowled at him. He was rubbing the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. "I'm in. That's good. Like..._duh_."

"Yeah, Kit."

Her scowl deepened. "Don't call me that," she snapped and swiveled back to her work. With a few quick clicks, a drag and drop, she opened up the file on her home system and perused the contents.

_Le Diable Blanc_ was in deep, whoever he was. SHIELD's file was not at all similar to Black Air's. Black Air had viewed the Cajun as a distinct threat with new data indicating potentially omega-level powers. SHIELD included a list of reference documents related to each assignment he had completed for them.

Kitty stopped, read that again.

"You're kidding me!" she practically squealed, then dug her fingers back into the popcorn. "Bullseye! Mission directives. Debriefings. _Contact_ information!"

Abruptly, she fell silent and started flipping through files, skimming, pausing to read deeply, then skimming onward. She caught a price tag and let out a low whistle. "This guy's expensive." Then kept reading. And reading.

She stopped, slowly removed her hand from the popcorn, and wiped it on a napkin. "Bobby."

"What's wrong?" And there he was annoyingly against her shoulder again.

She shoved him back. "Go tell Storm I hit the jackpot." Back to flipping through files. Scribbling down a few notes and plotting her next attack. The Justice Department.

"But what's wrong?" Bobby insisted.

Kitty sighed. "I think Rogue is in more trouble than we thought. Now go get Storm." She brought up the Federal Bureau of Investigation on her computer.

Bobby blanched at the sight. "Yeah. Uh...I'll do that."

* * *

Jubilee slipped quietly inside the quarters she shared with Betsy. Now that they had agreed to help LeBeau, they were not quite so guarded and could go in and out of the room without permission.

She shuffled over to the bed she had chosen and flopped out, face down, across it. She groaned.

Betsy was over beside her in a second. "You all right, Jubes? What did he do to you in there?"

Jubilee didn't lift her head to see the probably anxious expression. Instead, she lifted one limp hand and pushed Betsy back for a little space. "I'm fine," she mumbled into the spread, though it was doubtful whether the words were comprehensible.

"Jubilee!" Betsy started shaking the smaller girl's shoulder.

"What?" Jubilee swatted away the offending hand and sat up, disgruntled. "I've just spent two _hours_ watching people discuss somebody's death sentence in a _game,_" she snapped. "Can't I get a little rest after that?"

"Death sentence." Betsy furrowed her brow, but at least her hands were planted on the thick comforter. "Jubilee, what did he _do?_"

She huffed in response and crossed her arms. "They played poker. Or some variety of it anyway. I watched."

"Death sentence?" Betsy prodded, temporarily patient until she got the full details.

But Jubilee hesitated. "I'm not sure how much I can tell you."

Betsy's eyes narrowed. "_We're_ on this mission, Jubilee. He wants our help, then he gets us both."

"I guess so." Jubilee chewed on her lower lip, then sighed. "It wasn't Rogue. It was someone else and he doesn't want it to happen."

"Then what does this have to do with Rogue?" the telepath demanded.

Jubilee shrugged. "They're together."

Betsy froze.

"Apparently," Jubilee went on, "Rogue is with this guy that this other guy wants to kill and LeBeau made a wager to save his hide and that's now my job."

"You have got to be kidding me."

Jubilee blinked. That sounded like something she would say. Not Psylocke. "Well, we can call the X-Men now, so we better let them know we're following up on this." She reached for the bag Tessa had returned to them a little bit ago.

"Did he say where Rogue actually is?" Betsy asked. "Can we just go get her out of this mess?"

Jubilee dug into the bag, rummaging through paper, clothes, toiletries, and the other junk she'd brought along for this trip. She shook her head. "I doubt it. Rogue's been a bit of a busy cookie while we couldn't find her." She frowned and slithered her hand into the tangle of clothes, closing her eyes to feel for what she wanted. "Problem is, he didn't tell me where she is, only where she's going to be. Ah! Here it is." Jubilee triumphantly came up with her communicator.

"Jubes..."

"Chill. Gotta call." She activated the comm and grinned. "Hailing mother ship. Firecracker off the port bow."

Betsy rolled her eyes.

Jubilee giggled.

* * *

Storm scrambled to reply. "Jubilee, is that you?"

"Alive and kicking," came the teenager's chipper response. "I've got the bodyguard with me too."

The bodyguard? Storm tried to follow the thought, then it clicked. Betsy.

"Is she there? We were worried about you when you missed the check-in. We were about to send out the cavalry." Warren had convinced her to give them until one more check-in before sending out a team. They didn't want to compromise the two if they were undercover somewhere.

"We have a bit of a situation," Betsy's matter-of-fact British alto came through. "We don't have Rogue's location, but we do have a lead."

"Where she's _going_ to be," Jubilee piped in.

"I don't trust him," Betsy said, low in her throat in that angry, this-is-Pyslock-the-assassin-who-you-don't-want-to-mess-with sort of way.

Jubilee responded before Storm could. "Piffle. He knows what he's talking about. She's with that devil dude you all were talking about."

"The Cajun?" Storm asked, head whirling with their combined details.

"Yeah. That guy. And a bunch of people want him dead."

"What?" Storm was about to say more, but somebody knocked loudly on the door. "Hold on just a second, Jubilee. Come in!"

The door opened and Bobby stuck his head through. "Kitty's found something."

* * *

Chere went over the game plan one final time with Sunfire, finalized a couple of details, scribbling them down on the little pad of paper beside the bed, then with a "thank you" and "goodbye," hung up the phone. She blew out a long sigh and dropped the pencil onto the nightstand.

A quick glance around the room revealed far more details about Remy than his apartment bedroom had. The furniture was old-style wealth, heavy, handcarved, no doubt, and with thick, plush coverings. The hangings at the windows were a rich velvety kind of material. The comforter underneath her, damask. She slid one hand across the sheets and marveled at the softness. The room was sparse, but a few small items littered the top of the dresser: a cigarette pack, lighter, two packs of cards, a postcard, a penknife. There were two large windows, but no mirror. An open doorway by the armoire led around the corner into what was most likely a rather spacious bathroom and closet. There were few pictures, one of Remy with a blonde woman, one with a dark-haired man slightly taller than him, and one of that same man with another petite blonde wearing a bright smile.

_Family_, she mused, even as the names came to her out of memories that were not hers. Bella Donna. Henri. Mercy. She frowned. There were none of Jean-Luc.

The door swung open by a few inches. Remy?

But no. A small, pink-haired, benightgowned pixie with rough bones protruding from her skin at all angles peeked around the corner and fixed bright blue eyes on her.

"Hello," Chere said softly.

The girl's face hardened just a bit. She came forward through the door, arms crossing over her chest. "Who are you?" she demanded.

Chere restrained a smile at the girl's brashness. "Just a friend."

"Uh-huh. That's what they all say." The skeptical look just clinched it.

Chere shrugged and rubbed the kinks out of her shoulders. "You think I'm sleeping with him." Perhaps Remy wouldn't want her saying something like that so bluntly to a ten-year-old or thereabouts, but the perfect lack of surprise on the girl's face told Chere she'd aimed that correctly.

"That's his bed."

"Go figure," Chere muttered and stood. "I'm going to go have a talk with that boy about that."

The girl looked at her funny.

"What?" Chere settled both hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

She bit her lip. "Who are you?" And then she cocked her head to the side. The genuine curiosity written across her young face made her look her age again and Chere did laugh this time. That brought a scowl.

"Chere."

"They're _all_ 'chère,'" the girl protested.

"Well, that's all I am, so it'll just have to do." Chere ruffled up the pink hair and got another strange look in return, but she was melting.

_Are you sure that's 'all' you are?_ Something stirred in the depths of her mind, but with a brusque shake, she quieted the personalities flitting about the edges of her own. "Let's go ask him why he put me up here, shall we?"

We.

The girl eyed her doubtfully. Complicity with a potential enemy—at least in the matter of relationships and good taste—didn't seem to high up on the girl's to-do list. But they _were_ in agreement.

Chere raised an eyebrow.

"I'm Sarah," the girl finally said, then slipped out ahead of Chere, obviously with the intent to lose her on the way down.

Chere just laughed. It was a start.

* * *

Logan ducked under the police tape outside the decimated door of a small apartment in Montreal. He was getting real tired of hauling his way in and out of Canada, but this was the first scent on the trail and Logan wasn't about to let distance get in the way of the hunt.

The whole place reeked of explosives, old cigarette smoke, and—he sniffed again—Rogue.

He had found her.

Claws came out from both hands and he warily entered the apartment. Whoever had blown the place had done a good job. His eyes automatically went to the focus areas for the explosive scents. Evenly placed and hooked into the wiring. It had been a setup and a good one.

There was nothing personal in the kitchen, the living areas. No dishes in the sink.

He could smell the Cajun in here, older than the other scents. Logan figured wreck like this, kid like that, police and a few trackers after the deal maybe. Or whoever busted up the deal in the first place.

The bedroom held few revelations. A couple of men's shirts. A pair of jeans. Nothing incriminating. The sheets gave off Rogue's scent in spades but not Gambit's. Logan noted that with satisfaction. He'd signed on to get the kid out of trouble, not kill him for messing around with a girl no one was allowed to mess around with. The drawers gave him his first real piece of evidence. A rag that used to be Rogue's shirt.

It was riddled with bullet holes.

Logan swore.

He wondered how the police had left it, but he took it anyway. With the papers he had from the Guild, he wouldn't be surprised if Montreal had moved in and shut down the investigation as much as possible.

There was nothing in the bathroom but a blasted mess. He found the remains of at least four charges, possibly two more, and any personal odor—or effects—were buried under debris and the acrid smell of smoke.

Well, he'd found their little hideyhole, but they had left days ago and he knew from his own travels how easy it was to put some miles between one place and another.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Institute.

* * *

Storm stared over Kitty's shoulder, a little uncertain of what she was looking at. "Explain it to me again."

Kitty sighed longsufferingly but readily started pointing all over the screen again. "We're looking at a spreadsheet of different government agency, intelligence agency, and international antiterrorist or mutant regulation organization profiles on _Le Diable Blanc_, their contact information for him, locations, networks, etc. _And..._" Kitty drew out the word with an excited grin. "Bank accounts."

Storm blinked.

Kitty shrugged. "It's not as complete as I would like, but it's more than enough to start running on. Have you got a hold of Betsy yet?"

"Yes." Storm glanced back at Hank, who was still frowning at the spreadsheet as if doubting the prudence of giving Kitty such free rein. She turned her attention back to the popcorn-munching hacker. "Psylocke and Jubilee have found a good lead and have verified that Rogue is with him."

Kitty's dropped her handful of popcorn. "They _know?_ How come I'm always the last to know anything?" She cast a pleading look at Hank, who raised both brows.

"I am not certain that is precisely the situation, but we have only just been informed of this development ourselves."

Bamph!

Kurt appeared in the bedroom with a flash of smoke and all of them had to wave at the sulphur smell pouring into the room.

"It's Logan." He handed the cordless to Storm.

"When it rains, it pours," she noted.

"Open the window!" Kitty declared, still waving at the offensive smell.

Storm listened intently to what Logan was telling her, then handed the phone over to Kitty. "You handle this. I'm going to see what else I can get out of Betsy. Jubilee keeps changing the subject."

"A most disconcerting possibility," Hank replied.

"Yes." Storm smiled and left the work in Kitty's all too capable hands. Like others among the X-Men, she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know the extent of the young computer genius's abilities.

* * *

Kitty answered cautiously. "Hello?"

Logan grunted in response as he stepped out of the bathroom. "I'm at the first place he took her." Spotting a likely looking heap of rubble, he stooped to rummage through it. "Already blown through my top leads and coming up dry. I sure hope you've got something, darling."

"You're _where_?" she squealed excitedly.

Logan winced but kept digging. "The Cajun's place. Rogue was here." He came up with rags. A shirt. Jeans. He rattled off an address for her. Another shirt. He stopped. It was a woman's shirt, Rogue's size.

"Okay. Let me just cross-reference here." Kitty could sound like such a little professional, and he had to smile.

"What'd you come up with anyway?"

"Oh, about a dozen frozen bank accounts, some major places he picks up jobs and 'associates,' and about two dozen solid addresses." He could hear the grin in her voice. "I love Interpol."

"Interpol, huh?" Logan grinned right back. That's one of the things he loved about this girl. He stuffed the rags into his duffel. Not leaving evidence for any latecomers on Rogue's presence. "But he ain't going any of those places. Government's after him. Canada's anyway."

"Geez! How many people are in this?" Tapping, like a keyboard. "This is so nuts."

"Yeah, but it's life. What you got?" He spotted something hard and black sticking out of the debris. He reached for it.

"Give me a sec." More clicking. Pauses. Crunching. Pint-size was eating something.

He pulled out part of a computer. No brand he'd ever seen before. "Might have something here," he muttered.

Kitty's voice came back again. "Got you a checkpoint, Logan. Got a pen?"

* * *

Sage waited until she was absolutely certain she was alone before she picked up the phone and dialed Xavier's personal line from memory.

It took several rings before anyone answered.


	15. Le Tissage d'une Toile

A/N: On most of my fics, a lot of dividers became nonexistent. This appears to be a site glitch from our lovely hosts, which I will have to manually fix since they have yet to even respond to my inquiries. :sighs: I've been fixing them all (not quite done yet), so sorry for the delay on writing.

Carol is not a mutant in the comics. All superpowers are pretty much mutation in this story.

Thanks to **abthetis** for the title. Thank you, **PlonkerOnDaLoose** and **Heavenmetal,** for the beta. Thanks to all my lovely readers below.

* * *

**cuzimaw3som317** (I have no intention of letting this fic die. Do to writing waaaaaaay too many fics, updates are slow in coming. But thanks for the compliments! :grins: ), **Ludi** (Don't feel bad. I put people on alert and the site sometimes just fails to deliver. :grumbles: But no, I promise no matter how long the delay, I'm not going to let this one just die. And yeah, I admit to four chapters of stock-taking: the last three and this one. The intention was to get all the main players clarified and introduced and the major situation outlined. I've woven myself such a big web, a little stock-taking was well in order. :sighs: From here on out though, things get interesting. :grins: I'm glad the Chere/Sarah scene worked so well. I wasn't sure if it came out quite the way I wanted, but I refused to spend weeks mulling it over and just posted the sucker. :shakes head at self: Sarah's such a fun character to mess with as a girl. She's already got a lot of toughness, but she's still a kid. And that's what makes it fun. Jubilee's a ball. I picked her almost randomly and then her role just kept growing and expanding and she was just perfect for my needs. Besides being fun to write. And yeah, you're right. There's a LOT of stuff I'm just waiting to write for this story, but I have to keep unfolding it slowly or I'll lose everybody for good. :groans: Which is a pity, 'cause I want to write it now! :grins: And I'll let you consider Blindspot while I plot and scheme in the background here. Maybe we'll come to similar conclusions. As for Fatale...Next chapter. Promise.), **rougeplum** (Thanks, sweetie. I'm trying to be somewhat representative of a blending of comicverse and movieverse without killing either canon. It's kind of fun.),

**Karate? **(I like that word: awesometastic. :grins: But yeah, real complicated. I'll consider adding a tree sometime, perhaps to my website. This site doesn't lend itself well to that.), **coup fatal** (And you're it! :giggles: A very intricate game of tag, but I see the resemblance.), **CaptMacKenzie** (Very sad. I'll try not to take that long again. Sorry. But as for Logan knowing about Remy, Logan got in contact with the New Orleans Thieves Guild a bit back and received full disclosure in exchange for keeping an eye out for Remy when he goes after Rogue. Hope you don't have to reread the whole thing, but glad you're enjoying the story. And I'm going to use your idea. It'll be fun to use Logan to dispatch some of those assassins, no? :grins shamelessly: ), **Ladyhaemi** (I wish I could be clearer than I am, but too much exposition kills a story. Hopefully the balance is working.), **Fan** (I promise, Rogue and Remy's relationship is just going to get more and more complicated. :grins: We're actually coming up on some more of the prime inspiration for the fic.), **ruroca57** (That's exactly what I was thinking with Sarah. As far as she's concerned, Remy is daddy and swinging single simply means he belongs to her. Naturally. Of course, eventually she's going to have to accept Rogue, but I'm not sure it's going to be an easy path. Tried to correct the issue of Remy's absence from the last chapter. And I'm having such fun with Psylocke and Jubilee. They foil each other better than I realized they would when I dumped them together.),

**BuGGzErS** (Muse is in town! Now, if she'll just focus, we might get more done.), **Shadow Ice Maiden** (Ah, good point. We bring up the issue of how Gambit got all these crazy people after him. He's not _that_ popular, right?), **A Rose in the Night** (It is a little complex, huh? :head spinning: But glad you're enjoying it. Sarah's one of my favorites.), **AngelwithDirtyThoughts** (Thank you! I try to do enough on detail. It's a pain sometimes when there is so _much_ detail to include, but it's worth it when it works. And here is more!), **starlight2twilight** (How about crazier? I promise though, that as of now, _all_ the major players have been introduced. Whew!), **CurrentlyIncognito** (Sorry about that. :frowns: So many threads to work with. Having fun with amnesiac Rogue though. It was an important point for what I intend to do next. Um...:coughs:...Yeah.), **ladysblood** (I will not abandon! If I do, I always tell my readers. But I like this story too well to let it die.)

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Fifteen:** _**Le Tissage d'une Toile**_

_"__A Weaving Web_"

- Should I be on your side or his? -  
- Th' prudent answer would be mine, of course! But th' truth is, when I'm involved, who can ever really tell? -

_Nightcrawler and Gambit, Annual Gambit 2000_

* * *

Remy's house was large and rambling, and Chere would have been in very real danger of becoming lost if it hadn't been for the Cajun voice whispering in her head to turn here, open that little door, and see that light on? She found him in the kitchen.

Kitchenette rather.

Remy moved about at ease in the small space, chopping vegetables on a wooden block by the single sink and adding them to the sizzling skillet on the rangetop beside it. Barely armlength behind him was the other granite countertop, a stainless steel refrigerator, two matching dishwashers, and a microwave. He didn't glance up at her entrance.

"Sure is small in here," she said, grinning, as she dropped her elbows to lean on the counter.

He glanced up, a small smile playing about his lips. He waved the knife vaguely at dark wood cabinets. "Staff kitchen, Chere. Don't need a lot of room."

An eyebrow came up. "Oh, so you're staff now?"

This time, Remy treated her to the full onslaught of his grin. "And how may I serve you, ma chérie?"

Chere giggled, then clambered up onto the countertop. The cabinet pushed her head forward, so she leaned it against Remy's shoulder. Naturally, he didn't complain.

"How 'bout you tell me what I'm doing in your bed?" she whispered.

His reply was a low chuckle. With one hand, he stirred the skillet's contents. "Hope you're hungry," he said lightly.

She snorted. "Ain't an answer, sugar."

"Je sais." He slid one gloved hand over hers and kissed the back of it.

Chere sighed, then crossed her arms. "Charmer," she muttered.

Remy chuckled at her again. "Shard is putting Sarah to bed. She said the petite was coming from upstairs." His sideways glance was appraising.

Chere lifted an eyebrow in return. "You mean you didn't _expect_ her to come check out the competition?"

"You ain't competition," he replied tersely.

"Noted. But tell that to her, not me."

He groaned and pulled the skillet off the burner. "Let's eat."

"How about you tell me what's got everybody in arms over you first." She fixed him with an even gaze, but he merely glanced at her before pulling down two plates and serving out.

"You hungry or should I give this to Shard?"

She glared at him.

* * *

Peter Wisdom walked into the headquarters of the most secretive intelligence organization in the country, Black Air, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl for the few people brave enough to greet him as he traversed the long hallways, a set of stairs, and another hallways terminating in the glass door to a conference. Three people already sat at the table—Scicluna, Jardine, and Cassidy. Another man stood behind a good ways and earned the bulk of Wisdom's dark glare.

He threw down a folder on the conference table. It slid to a stop at Jardine's hand.

Wisdom jerked his head toward the other. "You bringing in Scratch?"

Michelle Scicluna, Director of Black Air and, unfortunately, his ex, drew her lips into a tight frown. "Sit down, Wisdom."

"When he does."

Jardine glanced up with piercing eyes. He ground out his cigarette in the ash tray. "What is this?" he asked, waving at the folder by his hand.

Tom Cassidy reached for the folder, but Jardine laid a heavy finger across it.

"This wouldn't be what I think it is?" he asked, grinning broadly.

Wisdom grunted an affirmative.

"Sit down, Pete," Scicluna said harshly. The use of his given name earned an annoyed glance and finally the action she desired. "We have important matters to discuss, and I don't care what's in that d—"

"You should," Jardine said casually, leaning back in his chair.

Scratch started to lean forward, then thought better of it. Wisdom noticed, but made no comment as he lifted his own cigarette to his mouth and lit up with a touch and a spark of light. Scicluna and Cassidy kept their eyes on Jardine.

Jardine, however, took no notice of them, or pretended not to. With a meaty hand, he drew the folder toward him, palmed it, flipped it open, gaze running down the page before a fierce grin lit up his features. "Gentlemen—and Director,"—this at Scicluna—"perhaps we get down to business. You all know the current acquisition Black Air has its eye on."

A few nods and a grunt of acknowledgement.

Jardine closed the folder. "What you might not know is that there's a spot opened up for promotion."

Wisdom watched Scratch's eyes gleam with interest.

"We're sending out three field agents," Scicluna added. "Of course, this promotion is based on merit."

The rest of that equation did not need to be spelled out.

"Dead or alive, boss?" Cassidy asked, eyeing both Jardine and Scicluna, unsure of just which one held the reins in this assignment.

Jardine answered. "Alive. And preferably incapacitated."

* * *

Chere was ticked. She did a good job of hiding it under her friendly chatter with Shard about little girls and Sarah stories, but she did not say a single word to Remy. He wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. But it wasn't until Shard looked between the two of them with an amused expression of her own and excused herself that he finally addressed it.

"Not a lot I can tell you, Chere."

She gave him a scathing glare in reply, then she rose and began to gather up the plates, studiously ignoring him. A white strand of hair fell over her eye. She brushed at it in annoyance.

Remy caught her by one arm and gently tucked the strand behind her ear.

She eyed him warily. "I am trying to save your hide, remember," she said softly.

He shrugged. His hand fell away. "Got the feeling this all be about something bigger than what we're thinking."

Chere frowned. "Wh—" She fell silent, chewing on her lower lip.

"Come on." He tugged at her gently and she followed him into the living room. He flipped up the cover on his laptop and tapped in his password.

Chere frowned deeper at the screen. "You're not an omega mutant," she said, casting him a puzzled glance.

"Non." He settled in on the couch.

She perched up on one arm. "What aren't you telling me?"

"At first, I thought this whole thing was tied into my last employer. Someone wanted me and she set me up for a capture. Simple enough to do." Remy watched Chere's face as he spoke, searching for that flicker of understanding. "Of course, the auction made me suspect there might be something more to all this. But all it usually means is that somebody really wants you dead and somebody that doesn't—or would rather do it themselves—decides to get in the mix."

"And then?"

"There weren't any suits." He kept watching her, waiting... "No military mercenaries, no feds, no free agents that take jobs from the on high..." There it was. That flicker of understanding dawning in Chere's green eyes.

She swiveled her head to look at him, mere inches away. "You mean the governments want you too."

He nodded.

"But..." Bewilderment flooded behind the understanding. "_Why?_"

"I'm not an omega _now_," he admitted quietly.

And there it was. The entire horror dawning. Somebody leaked out too much information in the right ears, and every mutant in the business knew that the strongest mutants were in the most danger.

"You were," Chere said softly. "Before."

* * *

Silverfox opened the door without knocking. The sole occupant of the sparsely furnished bunker had no need or desire for privacy. A girl, about fifteen years old, sat on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest, back to the door. Silky black hair fell over the shoulders of her military-issue white undershirt. Silverfox did not issue a greeting. The girl was aware of her presence.

"The mission's live," Silverfox said softly.

Silence held for a long moment. One long breath. The girl slid off the bed and pulled on a darker, long-sleeved shirt.

"How long?" the girl asked.

"Objective based," Silverfox replied.

She noted with satisfaction that there was some life in the girl's eyes when she turned around. The girl had been raised with little affection or genuine care, but somehow, every time Silverfox looked into those eyes, she felt a sharp pang of familiarity, a longing to know and be known. She refused to call the girl by her designation, and since the girl guarded her given name more closely than even her memories, Silverfox generally called her nothing at all.

"Objective unchanged?" the girl asked. She raised one fist and slid out two sharp, adamantium claws. She absently inspected them.

Silverfox shook her head in mild amusement. "All is in working order, I presume?"

The girl glanced in irritation, but sheathed the claws. "Gambit."

"Yes."

"I'm ready."

* * *

Hudson kept his head down going into the office after lunch. The last thing he needed to do was attract too much attention over poking his nose in other departments' business—like helicopters past the pike and hits on a mutant named 'Le Diable Blanc.' He muttered a soft swear to himself and closed himself into his office.

He'd disquised his own careful inquiries mostly under wanting to borrow Team X, only to discover they were already mission-committed for the acquisition of a coded 'loose cannon.' Hudson knew exactly what that meant, and he was under no disillusionment as to _who_ the loose cannon was.

"Logan, you get yourself tangled up in the _worst_ business," he muttered further to himself. If he had half a conscience less, he would quit trying to save all these innocent mutants he happened to know and let their troublesome superpowers save them.

He picked up the phone. "Operations Room Three," he barked.

Static, two rings...

"Hudson," his wife's voice came back at him.

He relaxed into his desk chair. "Heather, how's that girl doing in there?"

Silence for a moment. "Hang on a sec." He heard the coded beeping that indicated she was switching to a secure line, then a deep breath. "Not good. He's telepathically resistant and she's only got the vaguest headings for North America."

He swore profusely.

"What's wrong?" Heather demanded. "Who's up there?"

"All the manpower they can swing," he replied, then hung his head. "They're letting loose X-23, Heather. We don't have a lot of time."

Heather acknowledged grimly. "We'll find her, honey. Just hang in there."

He sighed, but found he was forced to agree. His back was to the wall. Logan's girl, Rogue, was sitting in between walking, talking mutant weapons and a bullseye. There was nothing more he could do.

* * *

Nick Fury focused an angry glare at the IT Operations Expert. The man was already flinching before Fury had uttered a single word.

"You're telling me that the best trained technical personnel of SHIELD can't tell me who it was that successfully hacked our entire intelligence database?"

"No, sir."

Fury leaned both hands onto his desk to keep from applying them personally to the problem of this man before him. "You have forty-eight hours to find out who they are, what they were looking for, and what they got. You have two to make sure they can never get anything again. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." The worker quickly made good his escape.

"A little harsh on him," Danvers said from the corner of his office, still ostensibly admiring the wall plaques.

"They told me it was unbreakable."

The blonde woman grinned at him over her shoulder. "You want my advice?"

Fury growled. "Only if it means the security breach is solved."

"Call in that favor from Forge," she said. "If anyone could figure it out, he could."

"I was saving him for the neutralizer," he replied wearily.

Danvers shrugged and went back to looking at the plaques. "Just advice."

"And we all know what that's worth." He studied her back.

Carol Danvers was one of the leading members of the United States government's team of mutant superheroes. No reason they shouldn't harness all that power for themselves. A hypocritical idea, but Fury knew better than to comment on that. SHIELD's file stated that the woman was a powerhouse of superhuman strenth with invulnerable skin and the ability to fly. She also had some history with another loose cannon that used to be well-controlled by the Canadian government: Wolverine. He was reportedly now an X-Man, something Fury deemed necessary to look into. But first...

"You didn't come here to give me advice on a security breach, however."

"No, I did not." Danvers sighed and went to sink into one of the chairs in front of his desk. "I came for your help."

"As it so happens, I have a favor of my own to ask."

"Of me or my team?" Danvers shot back, blue eyes wary.

Fury shrugged. "You. Nothing serious, I can assure you."

She snorted in disbelief. "I wasn't born yesterday."

"Of course, not." He grinned. "How about you tell me what the Avengers want done?"

"A possible mutant threat has come to our attention," Danvers started in smoothly, "but it falls entirely outside of our scope. The mutant in question has shown no signs in the past of attempting villainy, though it appears that HYDRA has taken an interest in his powers."

Fury leaned back, appraising. HYDRA was a premier international terrorist organization and specialized in recruiting dangerous mutants into its ranks. The situation fell squarely under SHIELD's jurisdiction.

"And in exchange for this information...?"

"We merely request that you deal with it appropriately," Danvers said. "Now, as to your favor, Fury, this had better not involve any of those ridiculous outfits you constantly seem to load me up with as a 'disguise.'" Her distaste was evident.

Fury chuckled at the memory. "There's a mutant I've heard you know."

She rolled her eyes. "I am a mutant, Fury. I know a great many."

"Wolverine."

Danvers remained nonplussed. "Not ringing any bells."

"Claws come out of his fists."

She froze.

Fury leaned forward. "Information. That's all I'm asking."

* * *

"You still want to do this, chère?" Remy's voice was gentle when he interrupted her furious swirl of thoughts.

She stared at him, then hardened her expression. "I ain't backing out, swamp rat."

He tilted his head, slight puzzlement in his eyes, then amusment. "Swamp rat, hein?"

Chere rolled her own eyes, then leaned in to take a better look at his computer screen. "So who all's out to get you? Everybody or just the mutant ones?"

Remy shrugged. "Enough."

True enough. She didn't press. Instead, she locked the computer and flipped it shut. "You're not sleeping in a guest room tonight," she told him, changing the subject entirely.

He chuckled at her. His hand came up to rub warm circles on the small of her back.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"That an invitation to share?" he asked again, managing to pull off a shocking amount of innocence in his tone when his words were anything but.

She leaned in close. "Think you can handle it?"

Red flared brilliantly, and her stomach tittered with sudden nervousness.

"Oui."

* * *

A/N: Also there's a poll on my profile. If you're feeling sweet, could you vote? And I'm working on yet another story (idiot me) very slowly on my website: House of Mirrors (linked on my profile). Due to not wanting to pressure myself to write it fast, I will only be posting this there. _Traiteur_ is going to be part of that story arc.


	16. Double Sens

A/N: Okay, so the story is, of the muse: "and when she was bad, she was horrid!" Okay, so hopefully that explains the dearth of new chapters. :shakes head in disgust: I'm really in a I-hate-everything-I-write moment, so I wanted to write something more suited to my mood. Here goes.

Thank you endlessly to my beta, **Heavenmetal**, as usual for doing an amazing job. Thank you, **abthetis**, for the title.

* * *

**SparklesInTheSun** (I know, very silly me, but at least it keeps me writing at all. Odd that, but I gotta write _something_. Sorry for the cliffhanger. I'm going to leave you hanging longer. Sort of. :grins: ), **ruroca57** (You're awesomely sweet. Especially for reviewing at all. And those two are horrible flirts, aren't they? :grins: I'm going to have fun following that up. And I'm so glad you can follow all the characters. Apparently, I've lost readers off of that issue, while others are having a ball with it. :sighs: Big and complicated or claustrophibically intimate. I don't do much in between. As for Carol... Well, I think I'll keep it secret for now. :winks: Glad you enjoy the quotes. That's actually my favorite thing about this fic!), **CaptMacKenzie** (I haven't lost _you_! This makes me happy. You and **Ludi**, I don't think I could keep writing this fic without your two's enthusiasm and encouragement. And as for X-23... Well, more surprises. But Weapon X just wouldn't keep throwing out the small guns when it's already blown up TWICE in their face. Yeah. Calling backup. :grins: ), **cuzimaw3som317** (Thank you! And please let me know if you ever see anything you don't like or love especially or want to see more of or want answered.),

**Ludi** (In a purely friendly and platonic way, I _love_ you! Glad to have helped you out on your bad week. Your review put a smile in mine. Except it's been a bad month...couple of months. And here's another sooner update due to a cranky muse that simply does NOT want to produce. And I promise that we have finally ended the introduction of the story and are heading into the actual playing out of events from here. I've got me a mighty big web to weave so I don't suppose it'll always feel that way, but finally, _finally_, I'm too the plot, not the players. :grins: :happy dance: I have considered writing in advance, but due to the many sticks I got in the fire, I've stuck to just trying to _keep_ up. :sighs: If I shut the muse up on ANY story, ostensibly to work on the ones I'm supposed to, it just shuts up altogether, which puts me in a bit of a quandary. Too much writing, too little time. And recently without my pain-reliever induced insomnia waking me up at 1:00 in the morning to write until 4, I just can't seem to write as fast.

But I cannot tell you how much it thrills me that you're enjoying the large cast. It's a mixed blessing, but I just hate to throw in someone without checking if I can make them canon first. :grins: And thanks for putting me onto Amalgam. She's like the height of Rogueness without control. I love it, love it, love it, and am plotting and scheming for which story arc will take her without ruining the rest of the story. :shakes head at self: I'm such a geek. And yes, Carol and Rogue shall meet. :nods solemnly: And woe unto whoever causes Rogue even slight discomfort with a wild Wolverine on the loose.)

And here's where we start to justify that M rating.

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Sixteen: _D__ouble-Sens_**

_"__Double Entendre_"

- Ya certainly know how ta get under a girl's skin. -  
- I'm trying. -

_Rogue and Gambit, X-Men #8_

* * *

She was as beautiful as she had ever been. The firelight danced across her mahogany hair and lit the white streaks framing her face with an intense glow. She was combing them through with her fingers. Her dark cloak was pooled on the floor at her feet, revealing close-fitting pants and shirt. Never one to reveal much, he noted. Not even now that the emerald eyes turned toward him had lost whatever modesty or innocence they'd ever had. Not now that she was beautiful as ever, ageless and unchanging. But no longer girlish.

"Fatale." Witness closed the door behind him.

"Took you long enough," she said archly, tossing her hair back with one hand and stepping out of her pants.

When he watched shamelessly, she did not blush. He considered whether he missed that.

"You've changed," he said.

"Years ago, sugar." She dropped her shirt onto the floor, then turned to him again and flicked an eyebrow upward. "I think I preferred the trench coat."

Witness laughed openly at that, finally coming forward to slide out of his own robe. "Things do tend to burn up around me."

She returned the laugh, low in her throat, and caught him in her arms. "Yes," she said, breathy but not breathless. Then she kissed him.

"What are you up to, chère?" he murmured against her skin.

She made some indecipherable sound in her throat and shoved him back toward the bed. "A card shark once told me, 'Never lay down your cards before the last call.'" She ran one fingernail down his bare chest and smiled at him. There was nothing shy or sweet about the smile.

"Never sure whose side you're on." His hands caught her wrists.

The smile curved wickedly. "Not supposed to, sugar." Then she silenced him with another kiss.

* * *

She seemed nervous.

Remy tried to give her space, trailing a good distance into the bedroom. She'd perked up after the phone call and fiddled restlessly with the corner of his nightstand before wiping her palms against her jeans and pacing.

He leaned back against the door. "You sure about this?"

Chere aimed a quick glare in his direction, then leaned against the dresser and crossed her arms. "So what happens next anyway? Tomorrow, when the hunters are loose and I'm supposed to be getting information, stopping the others."

"Thought we'd gone over that," he said dryly, with a flash of irritation. Remy made a quick inventory with his eyes and crossed over to the closet, stripping his shirt off in the process. "I track down Wolverine. You work with Sunfire and find out who wants what."

"They all want you." Her voice softened. "That's not what I mean. I mean, why are we _here_?"

Remy shrugged. "I need a place to hole up while I keep my end of the bargain, d'accord?" He glanced at her.

She looked away.

He ran his gaze over the tense shoulders, whitened knuckles gripping her forearms, the stiff posture. "What's bothering you, Chere?"

Chere shook her head.

He sighed but didn't press. Instead, he fished out a long sleeve white shirt and pulled it on over his head, then traded his jeans for pajama bottoms. He left on the gloves. "You want anything?"

That drew her attention. She stared at him, caught the gesture at his clothes. "I still got some of the things you got me." Then, she straightened from the dresser and haphazardly stripped off her outer clothes.

He stared at her.

She was beautiful. It was a girlish beauty, unwitting and innocent, and all the more seductive because of it. He watched the silken hair waterfall over pale, smooth shoulders and wanted to bury his hands in it. She casually slid into a white shirt and buttoned it slowly over the green bra. He swallowed and finally turned away.

"You drive a man crazy," he muttered.

She laughed lightly, but when he looked back, her cheeks were stained pink. "You're not exactly modest yourself."

"Oui, but I'm also not showing off goods I ain't willing to share."

The pink darkened several shades. "Sell yourself cheap, huh?"

This last was cutting, and Remy studied her carefully, frowned. "Not buying or selling, chérie," he said softly.

She blew out her breath in a huff, dropped both hands to her hips, and stared back.

He eyed down the length of her legs. "Wouldn't mind a free sample though." He cocked his head at her, grinned, knowing by her answering grin he'd hit the mark.

Chere turned toward the bed, then tossed over her shoulder, "Ain't no such thing as a free lunch, sugar." She slid under the covers. "Going to cost you."

"Really?" He leaned over to pull back the covers, but she gripped them tightly.

"I'll have you know,"—she leaned forward to whisper—"I have the latest in security."

He grinned. "Know just the Thief for the job."

* * *

Some days she wanted to kill him.

As she sorted through the divergent timelines, felt the twisting heat of potential, something niggled at her from their wager. And then she knew.

It was bad timing for her to place the hunched silhouette in the corner of the far window of his library, match name and face and body and build—_Jubilee_, and she bit down hard on his shoulder. Witness hissed slightly but did not stop and minutes later, she came. Hard.

Breathless, she rolled away from him and glared darkly.

"Quoi?" He hadn't missed that moment, and she hadn't expected him to.

"Cheat," she snapped.

He chuckled and settled onto his back, one hand still stroking her arm. "And precisely what rule did I break, ma chérie?"

"She was dead." She sat up on one arm and demanded harshly, "How the hell did you bring her back?"

Red and black eyes smoldered and for a split second, she fell into the trap, drowning in his will molding hers, but he could never catch her long. Her own eyes narrowed, changed, and the heat took over, burning up fiercely under her skin, melting into...

"Stop."

His voice and touch were soft, but she stopped and reverted into whatever baseline settled for "her." Personality had long since lost real meaning for her. Her gifts had changed and ravaged her. The more she mutated, the less she was. She'd lost the ability to care.

"How?" she repeated, head tilted to one side, lips pursed, giving him the opportunity.

Witness only chuckled. They had both changed. She had no power over him any longer.

"Someone once told me never to lay down the cards 'til the last call."

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment before she finally graced him with a wicked smile.

"Then let the games begin."

* * *

Chere had no idea how far she'd intended on going with him, but she didn't protest when his hand slid under her shirt or when he pulled it off altogether.

He pressed a light kiss to her shoulder—"you're belle"—before lavishing her body with his touch. The sensation of his gloves on her skin was no less scintillating for being covered and all too soon she was gasping and digging her fingers into his shirt, struggling to hang on.

He chuckled against her breast, then reached around and unhooked the bra.

_Not sure this is a good idea_. She didn't know which personality had decided to speak up inside her head, but she wasn't entirely certain she disagreed. _Too close_. Fear trembled briefly under her skin, but she just couldn't remember wh—

She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Remy!"

She moaned.

"Quoi?" Husky whisper all too close to her bare cheek, and his hand still between her legs, caressing her through the panties, drawing them off, making her pant.

"Do you want it?" he asked.

He drew his hand back and she glared at him.

Some days, she really wanted to kill him.


	17. La Belle Dame sans Merci

A/N: I didn't mean to renege, **coup fatal**. I got swamped, so this was late. Very late. I'm very, very sorry.

Thank you endlessly to my beta, **Heavenmetal**, as usual for doing an amazing job.

* * *

Thank you all who read and review. I apologize for the long wait, and I wish the chapter itself was better and longer, but it is what it is and hopefully you like it. I've been busy again, writing original SFF fiction, reworking the contemporary stuff, updating my websites, _earning a living,_ but not doing much fanfic. I hope to post some new stuff soon, but no promises, 'kay?

* * *

**Without a Trace**

**Chapter Seventeen: _La Belle Dame sans Merci_**

_"__The Beautiful Lady without Mercy_"

- Admit it, mon ami, we actu'ly make a pretty good team...  
when we ain't tryin' t'kill each other. -

_Gambit to Bishop, X-Men #47_

* * *

Chere was surprised at how good she felt, lying beside Remy, panting in the warming afterglow. He had settled the sheet between them and tucked her head against his shoulder and now stroked the small of her back.

"I don't think I've ever done that before," she admitted quietly.

He didn't comment, just held her a little closer.

Chere lifted her head, looked at him. His eyes were focused on some point above them. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing much." He shrugged his free shoulder. "Just wondering..." His voice trailed off.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Don't know if you'll ever need this, but her name is Morgan."

She blinked at him. "Whose?"

"Blindspot."

* * *

La Femme Fatale, the fierce, nameless patron of the New York Thieves Guild, traveled quickly and without company—in a swirl of sulphurous scent and enshrouded within her cloak. She had learned from years of using borrowed powers—those of Witness and Nightcrawler in particular—not to travel time and space at once.

She stepped briskly down the steps into her quarters at the New York Guild. Voices waited for her in the corners of the large, airy suite, whispered on the breezes coming in through the balcony doors, brushing lightly like footsteps across the heated tile floors, and crackled in the flames of a large hearth.

Rogue, Chere, Anna, Marie, la Femme Fatale, Amalgam—she'd worn so many names in her time—dropped her cloak onto a chair absently—_So much like _him_ now, aren't we?_—_Shut up, John,_ with all the briskness of long association, dispatching the jealous contender—and straightened a few things telekinetically.

The voices grew louder.

_You'll need to contact Blindspot. She's the only one who can do it,_ Erik insisted, as he often had.

_Been there, done that,_ she promptly shot back.

Quiet worry, lip-chewing hesitancy. _I'm really not sure about this..._

_He doesn't deserve her._ Snide, wreathed in flame.

_He doesn't deserve this._ Kitty and John volleyed back and forth so often in her mind.

_Kid, you're doing fine._ So loyal. She didn't deserve it.

Behind them all, liquid shadows stolen in corners, silent. He stopped talking to her years ago. She couldn't save him then. But now, even now, he wouldn't take a side. Witness. La Femme Fatale. He fought for a future she couldn't—_wouldn't, who're you fooling?_, bitterly—see. She fought for him.

Stubborn, stubborn.

He wouldn't pick a side and so she remained alone with a thousand voices and the only one that mattered, silent.

She studied the flames, eyes burning black and red, a soft magenta glow infusing her skin. She did not see the fire, but the twisting, burning threads of time. How many times had they changed it? Along one path, well-traveled, was the road that led her here and Witness there. Along the way, so many people had died, she cannot help but wonder why they're living now.

"Jubilee," she whispered. The petite Asian-American with her dark hair and exotic eyes, but more that open laugh that never feared Rogue's touch, had died in her first real battle.

The clone.

"How did you change _that_?" she demanded of an unhearing Witness miles and miles away. How _could_ he change that?

Her skin burned, melted into fiery kinetic energy, and she merged with time.

* * *

_"You going to need a new name," the old man says. _She often grounded herself in his timelines, in the things that he had changed.

_The little boy with the devil eyes stares up into eyes just like his own and remembers the stories told before he was even born of the dangers of this man. "You're le diable."_

_"Oui. I am that." The old man studies him for a long moment. "Gambit."_

She left him then, flung herself into the new threads they were both weaving, followed the pattern of her own first journey with Logan remade, where Jubilee lived.

* * *

Red on black eyes narrowed. Hundreds of thousands of potential timelines glowed and shifted and played out before her. Her greatest antagonist was the very man she was trying to save.

La Femme Fatale shook her head in disgust, then threw her own self backward and _changed_ it. Again.

* * *

Remy woke cursing, body trembling, world spinning around him. Couldn't whoever was screwing with his memories _again_wait until he was awake?

By the time, his room had settled again, he could feel Chere pressed against him, holding him from behind, whispering soft comfort. He turned to her and she withdrew quickly with all that bare skin.

"It's okay," he said, reaching for her.

She smiled at the touch, but pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself, to sit Indian-style on the bed. "What was that?"

Remy grimaced, not really wanting to answer.

She studied him for a long moment before pulling away and reaching for her sleep shirt. She pulled it on and buttoned it up, then settled Indian style at the foot of the bed. "You did that before, didn't you?"

He shrugged.

Her eyes narrowed.

He couldn't blame her for getting annoyed at how cagey he was being, but he couldn't stop the hint of his own annoyance. It's not like they had kept trust on the table.

"Let it go, Chere," he snapped.

She shook her head at him, mouth tightening into a frown, arms tightening around herself. "Why do I get the feeling that's a bad idea?"

Because it probably was. But he didn't answer. Instead, he turned away and culled through his memory banks to find whatever had changed. And found something...missing. He frowned.

"You ever meet a Carol Danvers?"

Chere's eyes went unfocused, then, "No." Her gaze sharpened again on him. "Have you?"

"Oui." Remy had plenty of contacts in the Canadian wilderness, gleaned from time spent there after his exile. Montreal had been more than willing to put up a Master Thief and former heir in exchange for his tithes. "Ace" had been one of them, courtesy of Wolverine. But someone had changed that. And he had a feeling that could be a problem. "Not any more, I guess."

Chere's head came up quickly. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged again, letting her draw her own conclusions. Judging from the glint in her eye, she would come to the right one.

Eventually.

"I'm going to take a shower. You leave in the morning."

She dropped her jaw, but Remy snatched up his own clothes and went around the corner into the bathroom without a backward glance. Things were moving too fast. He scowled in the mirror.

Who _was_ changing everything?

* * *

There _were_ rules in this game that Witness would not, or could not, break. They could put players into action, but they could not interfere with each other's maneuvers. He felt the timeline shift and knew that his lover was making her own moves. For not the first time, he wished he had never found her and guided her through her amnesia, never made love to her, never brought her into the Guild, and most of all, never let her become the merciless, beautiful woman she was now.

If only he knew what she _wanted_...

He ran one thumb over her picture apologetically. "Whatever are you up to now, Chere?"


End file.
